Video Doomed the Government Agent
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: Lauren makes a discovery, and her assumptions could break the triangle. Rating for language and mature situations. A Dream Writer Experience.
1. Second Choice

**Title:** Video Doomed the Government Agent  
**Author:** Dream Writer 4 Life  
**Rating:** Hard PG-13 to soft R for language and mature situations  
**Genre:** Angst. And I mean _serious_ angst.  
**Spoilers/Timeline:** general Season Three spoilers, including what happened during Syd's Missing Years, but Lauren's not evil, so it's AU  
**'Shippers' Paradise:** S/V, V/L  
**Summary:** Lauren makes a discovery, and her assumptions could break the triangle. A Dream Writer Experience.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading!**  
****  
This Chapter: Lauren's POV  
Suggested Soundtrack:** "Video Killed the Radio Star" by Bugles (hence the title), "You Oughta Know" by Alanis Morrisette, "Everybody's Fool" and "Exodus" by Evanescence  
**Author's Note:** I don't know what the hell this is, so if anyone could tell me, that'd be hunky-dory…

Video Doomed the Government Agent

Chapter One: Second Choice

Coming back from the dead you can deal with.

Killing a Russian diplomat you can deal with.

Still being friends with her you can deal with.

This…not so much.

You should not have even found it in the first place. Your penchant for organization and clean surfaces lead you to its discovery. Stupid habit. If only he had not pulled out one of his old Kings' tapes to win a bet with Eric. If only he had not left the cabinet a mess. If only you had not seen the shape he left the cabinet. If only you were not leaning slightly towards the obsessive-compulsive side…

And there it was. Somewhere between "One Hour Photo" and "Pretty Woman", your hand alighted upon the cursed videotape. It was unremarkable, nondescript, and without a label of any kind. Again your obsessive-compulsiveness overwhelmed you, charging like Mel Gibson in "Braveheart". You just _had_ to watch it. You just _had_ to find out what was on it; a place for everything, and everything in its place. And it needed a place, you reasoned.

So you popped it in and sat back on the couch, expecting to see a hockey rink or another bootlegged copy of "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" that he could have made after you "accidentally" threw out his old one. The VCR spitting it out three times should have been a clue: you were never supposed to see what's on that tape. After finally swallowing the cassette, the machine chugged along, vibrating so greatly with the effort that the dust practically jumped off the top. You sat back on the couch again with your legs folded under you and the remote in your lap; elbows on your knees and your chin resting on your fists. You could not have been less interested.

And then it happened.

Every moment has an effect on a person however infinitesimally small: ninety-nine point nine-nine percent of them are barely big enough to register as marginally significant. So that means very few leave a lasting impression, explode the foundation of your life.

This was one of them.

This rocked your world, snapped you back to reality, sent you for a loop. It absolutely obliterated every notion — preconceived, assumed, concrete, or otherwise — that you have ever held.

You really thought you might have blacked out, that the affects of that turkey sandwich you'd had for lunch hit you head on, and you instantly keeled over and fell asleep. Until you realized that your eyes were still open, you could turn the light on and off, and it still hurt when you pinched yourself.

When you established that you were not dreaming, you began to question the validity of the scene. Could those just be look-alikes posing as them? That theory was shot to Hell when you heard him moan: that deep, throaty, gravelly, passionate moan you thought only _you_ had the power to evoke. And his toes were curled: another of his signature habits.

Yep, it was them.

Maybe you were stuck in the first stage of grief because you could not tear your eyes away from the screen. You know the five Freudian stages well: in college, your major was psychology with a minor in sociology as a result of your father's nagging. But grief over what? No one had died: in fact, everyone involved seemed to be very much alive. Was it grief over your deteriorating relationship with him? Was it grief over your shattered innocence, the confirmation of your gut's suspicions? No, that does not seem to be the right way to describe how you were — are — feeling about this. You haven't really _lost_ anything.

Except faith. And trust.

What is life without either?

Almost instantaneously the small, cynical voice in the back of your head answers: 'A life spent with a CIA agent.

'That's not entirely true, though,' It continues as sadistic as ever. 'You just happened to fall in love with the CIA agent with the most complicated history possible, throwing you into the Love Triangle of the Century, and you were never very good at geometry. You sure know how to pick 'em, Lauren.'

Without warning, something with a grip akin to a vice clamped around your stomach. Bubbling bile rose from your stomach, burning your throat and spewing forth without resistance. You physically could not stand it anymore. You wanted to smash the TV, throw the VCR against the wall, burn the tape, anything! Anything to get rid of the images, the sounds that were playing over and over in your brain like a bad movie whose end just never seems to come. (If you close your eyes now it is still there, branded onto the backs of your eyelids forever.) You have seen the horribly juvenile teen flicks, the action marathons with not plots, the romantic dramas with the opposite problem…And they are all Heaven compared to this.

But instead of causing about a thousand dollars in property damage, you somehow controlled your anger enough so that you could stop the tape, _rewind it_, and pop it into the VCR in your bedroom. You even managed to clean up your own mess.

'Did it happen here?' You thought suddenly, pausing before sitting down on the edge of your bed. No, it could not have; the rooms were eerily similar, but they were not the same. You sighed out loud in relief; you didn't know what you would have done if that had happened _here_ on _your_ bed.

* * *

And that is where you are when he comes back from an 'emergency meeting' at the rotunda. As he bangs around in the kitchen, you cannot help but think if this emergency meeting was really with her in some motel on the outskirts of town. He calls out to you, but you refrain from answering. You hear him striding down the hall and clutch the remote tightly in your sweaty fist, thumb poised shakily over the play button.

Five minutes ago, you had no idea how this scene was going to play out; absolutely none. Now as his footsteps, muffled by the carpet, get almost indiscernibly louder and closer, you scramble for a plan of action like a squirrel in a rockslide. How could you forget the number one rule of being a spy? Your Covert Ops advisor only pounded it into your head about a million times: never go into a situation without one plan for each letter of the alphabet. 'And you don't have any!' Cynical Voice supplements readily. 'You were never very good at improvisation.'

Suddenly there he is; leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and his head propped against the frame. A smile spreads across his face like honey on a piece of bread. "Hey," He whispers to you, like he used to do when your marriage was in its infancy.

You continue to stare straight ahead at the blank screen, praying to whoever is listening to keep your body from betraying you. Muscles twitch under your skin, but by some miraculous feat, the majority of tremors that threaten to take over your body are kept at bay. Despite maintaining your stoic and unemotional façade, though, your insides could not be more active. By some act of God, your organs have decided to switch places, your heart in your gut and your stomach in your throat; you could not reply even if you wanted to.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his forehead wrinkles appear as he straightens up in the entryway. Cynical Voice resurfaces again to ask you yet another burning series of rhetorical questions: 'When was the last time _she_ saw those wrinkles, _your_ wrinkles? Was it ten minutes ago? Five minutes ago? And for what reason? Had his face been skewed for a different, _more pleasurable_ cause?' After slapping a muzzle onto Cynical Voice, you return to the present. He has made it across the room somehow, and is looking down upon you with a cocked head and a worried expression. Questions of puzzlement flow across his features with the fluidity of a knife cutting water: they wax and wane like the phases of the moon.

Like the waves of nausea smacking into you at regular intervals.

He lays his hand on your shoulder protectively, gently and silently prodding you to open up. Again you do not answer. Instead your arm raises, points the remote at the TV, and your thumb presses the play button. It takes a moment for the VCR to fire up (it's almost as ancient as the other one), but as he slowly lowers himself onto the edge of the bed next to you, it grinds to life and chugs towards ruining life as you know it.

For the second time today you see that room, the bedroom that looks enough like yours to send up a red flag in your brain. At first there is no activity, but in no time two people — a man and a woman — stumble into the picture, hands roaming all over the other's body. They waste no time in getting down to business, colliding with the bed and tumbling down upon it. He is on top of her, and you know by instinct that they are fumbling with buttons, the strange contraptions foreign to their lust-crazed minds. His is the first shirt to be shed; you can hear the faint pinging of buttons as they scatter to the floor, and his garment soon follows. Clutching her to him, he helps rid her of a floral over shirt, so horribly homely that you passively wonder how he could manage to see anything beautiful underneath. He then lays her back down onto the pillows and dips his head down to a stomach that he is slowly revealing to himself; you can just barely make out his fingers inching her tank top up towards her breasts. Without warning they rise again to their knees, in the process shedding her shirt.

The material slides over her head to reveal the face of Sydney Bristow. She smiles indulgently as they gaze at each other with reckless abandon and says so quietly the tape barely picks it up, "You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment."

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the man caresses her cheek and replies in a whisper, "Yes I do. It's been almost two years, but it seems like a decade." She smiles again, her dimples appearing as black circles, and she wraps her arms about his neck, bringing their lips together in a boiling kiss. They crumble back onto the bed, rolling over and over the sheets like a schooner in a tempest, connected by their locked lips and wherever their hands happen to roam.

Apparently tiring of their game, she flips them so that he lies on his back and she is lording over him, her knees on either side of his hips. His head is initially in shadow, but as the man's hands glide up her stomach to palm her modest breasts, she arches her back, and his face is cast into the light.

It is none other that the man sitting next to you: Michael Vaughn.

You see him sit up straighter in recognition — realization? Guilt? Shock? — and you figure that this is a good time to stop the tape: each moan of ecstasy will only bring you closer and closer to both blubbering like a baby and going to the kitchen for a knife to kill the cheating bastard. The thumb that was so shaky not ten minutes ago now steadily taps the stop button, plunging the screen back into blackness. Taking a deep breath you turn towards your husband, folding a leg underneath you and subconsciously squaring your shoulders. Before you can begin with some dry remark like, 'Does the defense have anything to say before we move on to sentencing?' or 'Insert explanation here,' he steals your thunder.

"Where'd you get this?"

You were not expecting that.

Maybe an 'It's not what it looks like' or 'We were drunk' or even and 'I'm sorry.' But 'Where'd you get this?'

'He's _so_ guilty,' Cynical Voice contributes, forcing in its two cents again. 'Well this is what you get when you block the path of true love.'

"What does it matter where I got it from?" You spit back, raising one corner of your mouth in a sneer. "All that matters is I've got it. Now—"

"Where did you get this?" He repeats dangerously, standing and looking down his nose at you.

You instantly do not like his tone; neither does Cynical Voice. Feeling that it is gearing up to say something scathing, you beat it to the punch by pressing the issue, "_What does it matter?_ Does more than one copy exist? Does _she_ have another copy for those lonely nights when you're home with me? Or doesn't she need one, because I'm only your second choice?"

"Jack gave you this, didn't he? The sick bastard. Or was it Dixon? He has access to the files…" He is frantic now, beginning to pace the floor on your side of the bed. His hands are clasped behind his back, and his gaze is trained towards the ceiling.

'It's all a bluff,' Cynical Voice concludes harshly. 'He knows that you know. He's just dragging this out for your benefit; you know, twist the knife in your back just one more time.'

"Jack or Dixon didn't give it to me," You reply, still sitting on the bed and watching him pace. "I found it in the cabinet in the living room." He stops pacing so quickly that you think he is going to fall flat on his face. He does not look at you but stares straight ahead at the wall, boring holes into it with sheer willpower. "Were you hiding it from me? Did you think I'd never find it? God, what was running through your head, Michael?"

Continuing to glare at the wall he answers blandly, "Lauren, you don't understand—"

"You're right: I don't understand!" You rise and cross to him in an attempt to get him to look at you. "_I'm your wife._ Why did you have sex with Sydney Bristow? When? Where? _How many times?_"

He sighs heavily and turns towards the opposite wall: away from you. "It's not like that, Lauren—"

"How is it like, then, Michael? Give me something to go off of!" You pause for the shortest of moments, but before he can say anything you continue, "Isn't anything sacred to you anymore? The vows we took mean nothing to you, do they? Just…just words said because you didn't want to be alone anymore, to be suffocated by the presence of your dead girlfriend. And now that she's back, alive and relatively well, you decide to ditch the ol' ball and chain and go running back into her arms — or should I say, into her bed."

"Listen, Lauren—"

"No, you listen to me," You demand loudly, getting into his face again, commanding not only his eyes by his full attention. You do not get it; you can tell when he's looking at you and when he's _looking_ at you. And he's not _looking_ at you. You'll settle, though, because you are on a roll now, and you cannot afford to lose your forward momentum for fear of coming apart at the seams. "I am _sick_ of this! Not only do I have to watch what I say and do around her, but now I have to worry about keeping you on a tight leash as well? That is not the way I envisioned our marriage, Michael—"

"Me neither, Lauren, but—"

"—So I think it should stop."

That effectively steamrolls him. He is left speechless for an entire minute — and restarts his pacing. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his dress pants, rippling slightly as he clenches and unclenches his fists to the rhythm of his strong strides. "What needs to stop? Your insane jumping to conclusions? Your crazy preconceived notions about anything and everything pertaining to Syd—"

"How 'bout us?" You supply quietly, eyes trained on him to detect even the slightest sign that he is affected by what you are saying. He does stop, but only turns his back on you yet again, replacing your eyes with the walls you two painted not two carefree months ago. Stepping closer to his solid back, your voice remains at the same volume as you continue. "This—" Your hand flutters in the space between your bodies regardless of the fact he cannot see you "—has got to stop. This relationship can't exist without trust; I won't let it. And right now…I—I just don't trust you."

He turns around, so slowly that you can almost swear he is really standing still, and _looks_ at you for the first time in a long while. His eyes even lock with yours and when they do, you are positively blown away with the emotion loaded within them. A staggering amount of pain saturates his green orbs; memories are etched like scars upon a tree trunk into his facial features. And tears…tears are actually brimming his eyelids. You have never seen him cry, never in the year or so you have known him; sure you've heard sobs from the bathroom once in a while, but he's never done it in front of you. Now they are rolling down his cheeks, slow at first like the first rain of the new spring, and then faster until his entire face looks wet and glistens with them.

"Listen to me."

There is a tremor in his voice that unnerves you, disarms you, throws you off your high horse. Immediately you realize that it has been present the entire time, but you weren't even paying attention to him until he began _looking_ at you. Immediately you feel guilty, feel regret at your total and complete lack of sensitivity towards him. Hoping to seem more sympathetic, you grip his arm, but he shrugs it away.

"I can't believe this," He starts slowly and thickly, the emotions in his tone vying for dominance. "If you can't trust me to have a valid explanation — If you can't give me the _time_ to give a valid explanation then this—" He makes the same gesture you did with a hint of scorn, planting a seed of doubt in your mind as to whether he actually did see you "—really is over." He averts his tear-stained face as he inhales a shaky breath, possibly because he's regretting the decision to let his guard down in front of you. His lower lip begins to quiver noticeably before his teeth clamp down on it, intent on stabilizing not only it but also his emotions. It obviously did not work, because as soon as he resumes talking it practically vibrates. "We didn't film that, Lauren. God, it's not even recent!

"Were you ever briefed on something called Project: Helix?" You shake your head, too emotional to recall your own birthday at the moment. "The short story is that it could double people. She'd just gotten back from Poland; she'd destroyed it with the help of Agent Jim Lennox, who'd been doubled himself. That night we were at her apartment, she was cooking, and we…took our relationship to the next level. What we didn't know at the time was that there was a second double, another person who'd been duplicated. That person turned out to be her roommate. She'd planted bugs all over the apartment, including Syd's bedroom. She taped us the first night we made love," His voice cracks, a sound you've definitely never heard before. He is struggling to control himself, forcing his feelings back down into his stomach and away from his eyes and throat. He's losing the battle horribly. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of tears, hoping to keep them in but only succeeding in forcing them out. They squeeze between his impossibly long lashes and glide down his already slick skin.

The very sight — his vulnerability exposed — makes a drop escape from your own cache.

Your boiling anger has reduced itself, its fires quelled by his multitude of tears. In its place is a dull, hollow feeling that you've never had in your life. You do not like it one bit. Suddenly you yearn for the fiery, aggressive Lauren filled with adrenaline and rage, that knew what she wanted to say and was not afraid to say it.

Cynical Voice must have gotten a real smackdown by Conscience. But with its dying breath, it somehow connected itself with your brain and forced your mouth to inquire, "But why the hell did you keep it?"

His eyes narrow to slits and he whispers dangerously low, "You have no idea what it feels like to be completely alone, do you? To feel like you're the only person left? To feel like your purpose — your reason for _breathing _— is gone? I kept this tape because, in some sick and twisted way, it made me feel whole again. Like she was still here. It was my solace, Lauren. I'd pop it in the VCR whenever I needed to see her, to feel her.

"After a while, though, I began to need it less and less, and it got pushed to the back of the cabinet. I honestly forget I even had it anymore." His voice cracked again and he had to pause in order to swallow his excess of emotions. "But that doesn't give you the right to jump to conclusions about Syd and me. What it comes down to is faith. If you had faith in me — If you _trusted_ me, you would have come to me in a rational manner, or at least given me time to explain everything."

You know what is coming, but fight it all the same. Shaking your head vigorously, you try to close the ever-widening chasm between the two of you, but he backs up cautiously, twitching his head as well.

"No. Don't come near me. Right now, I need to be as far away from you and your accusations as possible." He zooms to the closet, extracts an old ratty backpack, and begins to stuff it with clothes, throwing random articles inside and not caring where or how they land.

You want to stop him, feel the imperative need to desperately. But you can't. You are rooted to the spot by the invisible tendrils of Fate. 'Oops,' Cynical Voice hisses in your ear, causing you to roll your eyes internally. 'Guess you pressed the issue too far. You just succeeded in cementing what you accused him of: running into the willing arms/bed of Sydney Bristow. _Nice_ job, Lauren.'

Refusing to concede defeat, you glare harshly at the back of his powder blue Oxford shirt, one that you dutifully ironed just last Saturday. You cannot keep the hurt from cracking your voice as you practically whimper, "What are you saying?"

He springs up from the floor, faces you, and zips the backpack with resolve and determination. "I'm saying that I think we need a break. From each other. From this…_shit._ You need to reevaluate your point of view on this relationship. I just…I need to get away from you." He hesitates for a moment as if unsure whether to soften his blow with a quick good-bye kiss on the cheek or squeeze of the hand. Obviously he decides against either as he adopts sure, quick strides towards the door and out of the room.

You hear him rattle about in the kitchen, gathering up the belongings from work he had just deposited on his way in.

You hear the apartment keys clink as he drops them on the counter.

You hear him slam the door shut, making even the picture frames in your room jump.

Finally regaining control of your body, you collapse onto the bed and cover your mouth, afraid that if you let even one sob through your lips, you would never be able to stop the rest of them. But by now your strength is nonexistent, and the first of many wails tumbles off your tongue and between your fingers followed by another, and another, and another, until you're not breathing anymore: you are just _crying_.

Abruptly, Cynical Voice rises up from the corner of your mind to mass in front of you. It congeals into an indistinguishable mass, but then through your tears you see it reshaping, taking the final form of Sydney Bristow. She smiles sardonically, slowly and painstakingly, as if she is drawing poison from a wound. Then her lips part and she speaks over the racket you are making:

"You lose, Lauren. And I win."

With a last wink she disappears, disintegrating into the time, space, and Cynical Voice from whence she came, leaving you to cry like a baby over the shambles of a life you have reduced yourself to.

****

TBC...


	2. The Perfect Excuse

**Everything's the same...**

This Chapter: Vaughn's POV

Suggested Soundtrack: same songs, "House is Not a Home" by Luthor Vandross, "Here I Am" by Ron Isley, "Split Screen Sadness" by John Mayer (lyrics are used), "Field of Innocence" by Evanescence, and "Don't Leave Home" by Dido at the end

Author's Note: Enjoy!

Video Doomed the Government Agent

Chapter Two: The Perfect Excuse

All you need is love is a lie cause  
We had love but we still said goodbye  
Now we're tired, battered fighters  
  
And it stings when it's nobody's fault  
Cause there's nothing to blame at the drop of your name  
It's only the air you took and the breath you left

You careen out of your complex's parking garage still seething. It's a wonder you don't hit a stop sign, let aloneevery single pedestrian strolling down Fifth Street; they all seem to have targets on their backs, just begging youtostrike at their bull's eyes. But somehow you resist the urge to commit mass murder and continue racing downstreetafter street, weaving in and out of traffic and neglecting turn signals, shaking an invisible tail. What is tailingyou?Lauren's words, malice, misconceptions, misunderstandings…Her hate. You reproach yourself sternly for taking her shit as long as you did.

How could she think those things about you?

How could she honestly believe you would sink to that level, would compromise your moral character for one last hurrah?

And tape it?

How could she not trust you to be _you_, could not _have faith_ in you?

How could she think you still feel that way about Syd?

How could she be so right?

Suddenly you slam on your brakes and swerve to avoid a cat that randomly shot out of the alley in front of you. As you curse loudly the cat trots by, unscathed and unaware that its life was nearly snuffed out. When it reaches the other side of the street you continue on to—

You halt again abruptly, squealing tires and burning rubber causing the motorists behind you to lean on the horn and call you names that wouldn't come out of even a sailor's mouth. Ignoring them, you grip the wheel with knuckles whiter than paper. A thought has struck you and will not leave until you resolve your problem.

Where are you going?

It is a thought that wipes your brain clean like a stove in a Brawny commercial. You realize that the route you _were_ taking would have led you to her old apartment, a place that you promised to leave behind the day you married Lauren.

Just like Syd.

Promises are not always kept.

Knowing that this destination is unacceptable for too many reasons to count, you take a sharp right down the next alley and start heading towards Weiss's complex, which you blissfully forget is also _Syd's_ complex. When the realization caroms through your ears and into your brain, your brakes shriek for the third time in as many minutes; you are grateful the alley is deserted, or your tidy little compact car would now be a tiny little compact cube of metal. You vaguely remember Weiss mentioning Syd's new address the last time you played hockey together. More information comes back to you; his exact words were, "Now I have a drinking buddy that only has to drag me up a few floors when I get wasted."

Shit.

If Lauren found out that you had gone over to _that_ complex, she would automatically assume that you had gone to drown your woes in Syd's bed.

But wait a second. Aren't you already in the doghouse? So what would this hurt? In for a penny, in for pound. If you have already dug yourself a hole, why not go all the way to China?

****

We share the sadness  
Split screen sadness  
Two wrongs make it all alright tonight

You crush the accelerator and shoot down the alley.

Arriving on Forty-Second Street so quickly that you deem the passing time an instant, you pull into a parking space, get out while lugging your backpack with you, and feed the meter as many quarters as it can handle. Knowing the doorman by his first name helps in this situation; with the way your mind is working at the moment, you could not argue your way out of a wet paper bag. Nodding to the old, docile man, you stride into the building only to stop in the middle of the lobby.

You came here with the sole intention of seeing Eric, of sitting him down and _making_ him listen to your plight, hoping to God he would have something semi-intelligent to say.

But now that doesn't seem like the right choice.

He is not suited to deal with this problem. Yes, he only wants what is best for you and has your best interests at heart, but…He's too far away from the epicentre; he doesn't _get_ it.

Syd _gets_ it; she is the only one who truly _understands_. Maybe you should talk to her about this. It would sure make sense, and you haven't _talked_ to her in so long…

Suddenly you find yourself in front of a door. A big, green door with 4G nailed to it in wood and painted a cheap, flaking gold. You have no idea what you are doing here: Eric lives three stories up in 7D. And just as suddenly you know: this is Syd's apartment. You can feel it.

You see the doorbell; you know you should use it — the polite thing to do. You are dropping by uninvited and (probably) unwanted with a backpack full of clothes and asking if you could possibly spend a few nights with her. Pressing a little plastic button is the _least_ you can do.

But it's not the _Vaughn_ thing to do.

The old Vaughn would just barge in without any warning, completely secure in the fact that she would be happy to see him; or better yet even _use his key_.

Diluting that Vaughn, you decide to simply knock.

Immediately after, you hear a muffled crash and sharp swear. She giggles loudly as if right next to the door, the knob turns, the green wood falls away…

And there she is, hair pulled back in a French braid and wearing pajama pants and Lycra tank top. The smile frozen on her face slowly disappears, the corners of her mouth crawling towards her chin but stopping halfway in an emotionless daze. You have never failed to notice that, despite the passage of time, the contours of her face remain the same: the curve of her lips, the depth of her dimples, the smoothness of her forehead. The only thing that has changed is the vacuous vacancy in her eyes. It kills you to know that you are the reason it is there.

Suddenly she is gone, and you are facing green and gold again.

She slammed the door in your face.

Not an unexpected reaction to be sure, but not exactly the one you wanted.

You hear a familiar deep chortle/laugh from inside the apartment, and the door opens up again.

"Syd, I know you ordered a safety pizza, so don't try to cover it up by breaking the nose of the delivery—"

Weiss.

Eric Weiss.

He's the one standing in Syd's apartment, answering the door like he is her—

No. You will not allow yourself to think of the word. His face is unreadable for a moment, and then his eyes take in your backpack, the circles under your eyes, and the general haggard state of your appearance. He moves aside and opens the door wider, gesturing for you to enter. Cracking a smile at last he says, "Hey, you're not a delivery boy! But you don't happen to have a pizza in that backpack, do you? 'Cause I think our dinner's officially six feet under."

You briefly mirror his grin, but it disappears as you look beyond him. She is leaning on the counter by the sink on the island with her elbows locked and head down. It looks like she wants to throw up something terrible. The stove behind her is issuing some disturbing sounds, and as your gaze shifts to it, Eric gasps and scuttles over to turn off the burners. Popping on a pair oven mitts, he bends over to extract a smoking, crisp, almost on fire object and sets it next to the pot on the stove. After fanning away the billowing smoke and coughing, he made a show of going over to the sink and dumping out the pot that was on the stove. Through the hissing and steam, you hear a tersely whispered conversation between the two.

You know they are arguing about you.

You know she wants him to make you leave.

You know he is refusing, because you know he would never do that to you _or_ Syd.

He knows she really doesn't want you to leave.

He knows you want to stay.

He knows he should go home.

Depositing the pot in the sink, Eric gently rubs her bare shoulder as he passes to the other side of the island and to a barstool with his coat draped across it. He raises his eyebrows at you and nods towards the stool's twin. "Come on in Mike. Let your hair down and sit a spell."

You remain at the door with your feet planted firmly on the welcome mat and clutching your backpack like a child on his first day of kindergarten.

Eric frowns briefly at the rejection, but then scoops up his jacket, extracting a set of keys from a pocket. "And that's my cue to exit," He says, striding towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Syd. And Mike…" He stands beside you facing the door and speaks out the corner of his mouth. "I don't know what the hell you did, but don't do anything to make it worse." You nod once and he exits, leaving you alone with her.

**_   
  
We share the sadness  
Split screen sadness  
Two wrongs make it all alright tonight_**   
  
Silence reins for what seems like an eternity.

You stay rooted at the door, your eyes transfixed on her still form.

When she garners the guts to look up from the floor, her face blows you away yet again. Her façade is the perfect mask of even, calm emotionlessness, juxtapositioned perfectly by her slightly shaking arms and the single tear poised in the corner of her right eye. Her stare seems to bore straight through your skin and into your mind, your heart, your soul. She has always had this disarming affect on you, but since she has been resurrected, you haven't had the opportunity to see if it was on the same level as Before.

You had hoped it was less.

But when her gaze pierces you quicker than a hot knife through butter, you know its power has grown exponentially.

Her lips barely move when she speaks, but her voice echoes about the large space, louder than she probably meant it to be.

"What are you doing here?"

You know you have the answer — have the right answer — but for a moment, it gets lost somewhere along the way from your brain to your throat to your lips. It finally pushes past your tongue and you stutter, "I w-was looking f-for Eric, but he w-wasn't in his apartment, s-so I came h-here." You are lying through your teeth, and you know that she knows that's the right answer, but it's not the _real_ answer.

"Bullshit," She states clearly and firmly, standing up straight and facing you for the first time since she answered the door. Her gaze never waivers. _"What are you doing here?"_

Still not wanting to divulge the truth you try again, "Can't a friend drop by on another friend without being subjected to the third degree?"

She exhales shortly, almost snorting. "Not when said 'friend' is ignoring the other friend for almost _two weeks_. Not when the 'friend' is harsh and clipped and overly critical of everything. Not when the 'friend' has been anything but." She shakes her head almost imperceptibly as she adds, "You didn't even know that I live here. You guessed."

Now she is reading your mind, too. "How did you know?"

"I didn't. You just told me." She exhales heavily and leans upon the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. Her gaze averts back to the floor, and you are secretly glad; you don't think you could have taken another second of her close scrutiny. "4G. It was the only apartment open at the time. If you decipher it right you get forty-seven. How's _that_ for irony?" And the gaze is back, even though her head is still tilted towards the wood paneling. She repeats for the third time, _"What are you doing here?"_

Third time is the charm, and you cannot lie to her anymore. "Lauren and I — we had a fight."

"And she kicked you out?" She counters in a tone that suggests she knows the answer but wants to hear you say it anyway.

"No," You reply, trying to swallow the lump in your throat but failing miserably. "I left." Her, your heart yearns to add. _I left her_.

But your mouth doesn't move at all.

She nods knowingly but does not press you further. You are grateful for this, even though it is probably more for her own sake than yours. For a brief moment — quicker than a lightning bolt — you think you see a flicker of triumph illuminate her face. But then it is gone, and she is back to being calm and stoic — eerily reminiscent of her father.

Out of nowhere she states, "We're not together, you know."

"Who?" You ask, feigning confusion even though you know exactly who she's referring to; the burning-hot jealousy sears like heartburn in your stomach.

She perceives your false reaction but answers all the same. "Weiss and I. We're just friends. That's it. You have nothing to..." She trails off. You're grateful for this, even though the realization that she can still sense your internal reactions hurts even more than the reactions themselves.

You nod slowly to acknowledge you understand her intent.

She launches herself off the counter with effort and circles the island to where Weiss stood just a few minutes before.

Hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her pajama pants, she shrugs her shoulders up to her ears and exhales as she lets them fall back down. "Well, come on in. Shoes and coat go in the closet on your right. You can have the bed and I'll take the couch." Before you can protest, she is heading down the hall towards…something. You have never been here, so you don't really know.

You cannot help but notice her use of 'the'. It's not _her_ bed, it's _the_ bed; it's not _her_ couch, it's _the_ couch. You are not quite sure whether this is because she still does not think of them as belonging to her…or she has momentarily 'forgotten' that you do not share the same bed or couch anymore.

Then she sticks her head out of the corridor, breaking into your thoughts. "You coming or what?" She demands, a twinge impatient. You hurriedly kick off your shoes and coat and follow her down the hall to her bedroom.

Passively, you remember when that could have been said in a more pleasant context.

****

* * *

I called  
Because  
I just  
Need to feel you on the line  
Don't hang up this time  
And I know it was me who called it over but  
I still wish you'd fought me 'til your dying day  
Don't let me get away

You can't sleep.

Though not for lack of trying: you have been lying on your back and staring at the ceiling for two hours, seven minutes, and thirty-seven seconds…Thirty-eight seconds…Thirty-nine seconds…Forty seconds…

Giving up, you finally feel your way back towards the living room. The light source ahead of you is casting flickering shadows that sprightly dance to and fro across the wood paneling. She lit the fireplace. You remember she used to love to light fires; she would live for any day below fifty so that she could put her dusty fireplace to use. Which is one thing that disturbed you about her death: you used to mull over the possibility that she was lighting a fire for the two of you before you set off for Santa Barbara when she set off an explosion of some sort. The mere thought of that period of your life brings salty tears to your eyes, but you will them away and continue down the corridor.

You stop abruptly as soon as you cross the threshold. She is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her back unnaturally rigid. She has no book, no paper; nothing to keep her occupied. All she does is merely stare straight into the crackling flames.

It is then that you notice the bags under her eyes. The bags that are like horse feed because they hang down so. The bags that you know she spends a bottle of make-up per week to conceal from the world. The bags that instantly make you sick.

Out of nowhere, your stomach growls loudly; you haven't had anything to eat since your granola bar at lunch. She looks up in alarm and your eyes lock. "What are you doing up so late?" She asks softly, her voice sounding at least a mile away.

You cock your head slightly as you reply, "I could ask you the same thing."

She sighs and looks down at her lap, rubbing her eyes with one hand. "I haven't slept much since — well, you know. And hardly at all since the nightmares started."

Concern floods your system, and you stride towards her, perching yourself on the coffee table across from her. "What are they about? Do they help you remember anything?"

Avoiding your searching eyes she answers, "No. They're just fragments, really: just sounds and voices and pictures. But every once in a while there's a really vivid one and—" She shrugs "—I can't sleep for a week."

Something about her even keel and calm tone disquiet you. It is almost like she's merely taking it all in stride, as if it is some everyday occurrence, when you know in your heart that it is anything but. You know immediately that you need to hear this information, that you must force it out of her because you have a stake in her memory as well. "Syd, what happens in them? Is there a recurring theme?"

She closes her eyes for a moment to make it seem like she is dredging the dreams out of her memory, when in fact you know she remembers them like the back of her hand. "Of course the name Julia gets thrown around a lot. There are chimes — lots of chimes. They almost sound like church bells. And there's a stone statue of an angel that's backlit with white light — Actually, I know that one. I had an apartment in Rome, and the skylight above my bed framed a church with that statue on it." She pauses as if she is done, but you feel that there is something she's holding back from you.

Raising an eyebrow you prod, "There's something else, isn't there? One of the more vivid ones. Come on, Syd, you can tell me; I can take it."

Shaking her head slowly she whispers, "But I don't know if I can."

You are getting a glimpse of the old Syd, the Syd that never hid things from you or kept secrets or lied. She is breaking down, deteriorating before your very eyes. Forgetting what her father warned you against, you clasp a hand over one of her own and squeeze it reassuringly, feeling what little strength you have flow out your appendage into her.

She closes her eyes again — this time sincerely — and takes a deep breath before beginning. "I wake up on a gurney in what looks like a hospital room. I'm wearing a hospital gown, but there's a part that's stained red with blood. When I stand up, there's a sharp pain in my side, and when I lift up the gown, there's a gash in my side with a tube sticking out." You are grateful that her eyes are still shut; it's better that she does not see you wince. Her voice becomes choked and frantic. "I open the cut wider and start pulling out the tube. It hurts so much, Vaughn, but I keep pulling and pulling and pulling, and it never seems like there's an end to this tube, and soon there's feet — hundreds of feet — of tubing just coiled up on the floor in a puddle of blood. I finally reach the end, and I just collapse against a wall because I'm so scared. It hurts so much, Vaughn. It always hurts _so much_…" She trails off, and you can tell she is fending off tears.

Even though your brain is screaming for you not to, you cross the gap between your bodies and envelop her in one of your infamous Support Hugs. You clutch her to your chest as she chokes back wet sobs; you stroke her hair as her tears slide down your neck. How many times have you done this in the past; and how many times did you think you would be doing this in the future.

As if remembering the stipulations on your situation, she pulls away suddenly, biting her lip to keep her cries at bay. Gaining courage when she succeeds she whispers, "We can't do this. You're married. I don't want to put myself in a situation where I could jeopardize that."

You tilt your head so your eyes meet. "Being a friend to you won't jeopardize my marriage."

You should _not_ have used that word. Her momentary insecurity is gone, replaced by that Bristow vivacity you know so well. "Really? I didn't get that impression these past two weeks. Ignoring me, avoiding me, switching operations with other agents just so you didn't have to work with me…Yeah, that's a _true_ friend there. That's a man who's _loyal_ and _trustworthy_. That's a man who's worth my time."

Her words cut deep and pour salt on the wound at the same time. Before you can keep your emotions in check, though, your mouth rattles off, "I was doing it for your own good, you know. I didn't want to kill you with my kindness."

She exhales sharply and shakes her head in bewilderment, a wry half-smile spreading across her face. "Amazing. Even after all this time, you're _still_ trying to coddle me. When will you get it through your head that _I'm not a child: I can take care of myself._ It's not your job to protect me anymore. In fact, you probably _shouldn't_ protect me for the good of your marriage."

"Your father told me to do it," You blurt without warning. This garners her gaze and you shift uncomfortably. Great. Now you have to explain. "See, when we were in federal custody, he explained what I was doing to you. He said that I was destroying you, and that it would be best if I would be distant with you — even hurt you — for your own sanity. I-I didn't think that I could trust myself to be distant around you, so I…I cut off all contact. I really was doing what I thought was best for you, Syd."

You have no idea why you leave out Jack's mistress comment.

She visibly relaxes, her shoulders slumping and letting her spine curve. "That's all? You were taking advice from my father?" She restates, raising an eyebrow in amusement. You nod, not seeing how she can find humour anywhere in this situation. She even laughs once before she continues. "Consider the source. He's my _father_, Vaughn; of course he's going to be a little overprotective where it comes to me. If I ever wanted you to back off, don't you think I'd tell you?"

Shrugging in defeat you reply, "I don't know, would you?" You can tell this is not the response she expected so you go on, "You never _talk_ to me anymore, Syd. Even before we were together, you used to tell me everything. Why can't we go back to that?"

"Because it hurts too much, Vaughn!" She cries out in exasperation. Running a hand over her hair, she takes a deep, calming breath. "This is what Dad meant — the killing with kindness thing. I know you mean well, but intentions aren't actions. I can't share everything with you _because_ it would be like before. Vaughn, there was never a time when we didn't have feelings for each other. So you see, it would get us nowhere. If anything, being open to you would push us back." Her voice cracks on the last word, and she bites her lower lip to keep it from quivering.

You nod slowly, letting that not-so-pleasant-but-entirely-true information seep into your skull. You had never thought of it that way before. It was stupid of you not to. How could you forget all those days 'window shopping' and those nights spent at the warehouse practically swimming through unresolved sexual tension? How could you forget those looks that lasted a fraction of a second longer than they should have? You open your mouth to apologize, to say something, but then realize that she already knows you're sorry. Your lips shut and you continue nodding, looking slightly like a bobble-head doll on the dashboard of an off-road vehicle.

The silence is back again, and it is as pregnant as it was earlier in the night. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see the pink elephant in the room. Of course, it could be just your insomniac mind playing tricks on you. Before you can say anything to make the elephant go scampering, though, she addresses it. "What did you and Lauren fight about?"

And so the elephant stays, now plopped right next to you in front of the fire.

Folding your hands between your knees, you choose your words carefully to protect all parties involved. "She found something of mine from a while back and assumed things she shouldn't have." You stop, having no desire to continue.

But she presses the issue. "It involved me, didn't it?"

Your unresponsiveness is all the answer she needs.

"What was it? A picture? A letter? What could she get from those?"

Raising your eyebrows pointedly you respond, "It was a little worse than that."

Understatement of the Year.

She is still not getting your point though. She repeats, "Well…What was it then?"

You inhale a deep, calming, zen-like breath, fearing her reaction to what you are about to say. "Remember the tape? The one recovered from Doren's bug in your TV?"

Immediately her eyes widen in recognition, and she sits up straight again, almost climbing over the back of the couch in surprise. "_You kept that?_ For all this time? Vaughn…Why? What the hell were you thinking?" 'What do you mean?' Her eyes are screaming. 'Are you trying to tell me something?'

Shaking your head and shrugging your shoulders, you avert your eyes from her harsh, disapproving, almost disgusted gaze. You had hoped you wouldn't have to explain that little tiny detail to her, but now that she has requested, you will have to produce. "Syd, I don't kn—" Stupidly, you look up in the middle of your sentence, catching her eyes. You were completely prepared to feed her a half-truth about the CIA telling you to dispose of it and forgetting it was in your possession. But now that you're in the clutches of Sydney Bristow's Gaze of Truth, you know that she will see through anything that even hints at a lie. Her chocolate brow eyes have grown three shades darker and four times rounder, inadvertently imploring you to _give her a reason to hope._

And, inadvertently, you give her that reason.

Loosing all your carefully laid plans and throwing caution to the wind you begin anew.

"I — I missed you, Syd. I missed you so much. After you died, it became my solace. On the last day before I left, Marshall helped me get a copy of the tape — I never told him why, but I bet he knew. I-I used to watch it over and over until I thought I'd break the machine or the tape or something. It was the only real, moving, talking evidence of our relationship, and I needed that comfort at the time. I needed to feel close to you.

"But then I moved on, and I needed the tape less and less, eventually putting it in the back of the cabinet. And that's where Lauren found it."

"And she thought we were…having an affair."

"Yes."

That is when you realize you are crying again.

You haven't cried this much since you found out she died.

The tears are coursing through well-worn paths down your cheeks and drop off onto your blue sleep shirt. You close your eyes and attempt to send them away, to will your tear ducts to swallow them back up. The only thing you manage to do is coax more of them to the surface.

Suddenly her hand is cupping your cheek, gently brushing away your tears. Its partner joins it on the opposite side, and you feel the salty liquid evaporate from the heat of her touch. You lean into the gesture, and soon enough you're both on the couch, cradling the other closely, tears mingling and mixing.

Talk about a role reversal.

Your hands find their way to her hips as she pulls you into her lap. The two of your separate abruptly, greatly aware of every single body part and where it is situated. Your eyes lock with hers, and words are exchanged in one of your infamous Silent Conversations. Fear and doubt and uncertainty are manifested in the tears brimming her lower lids, but beyond them you can see the need and lust and unbridled love. You know this because your own eyes convey the same themes.

And a thought strikes you with the speed of a lightning bolt and the repercussions of an atom bomb.

This is the perfect excuse.

Lauren finding the tape, accusing you of infidelity, and driving you away is the perfect excuse to jump into the arms of Sydney Bristow and stay there forever. The hole to China has already been dug; why not dig to India or Turkey or Afghanistan as well? Isn't one hole as bad as fifteen?

Yes, it would be the perfect excuse…

…If you were both stupid enough to take advantage of it.

She is not mistress material, and you are not about to make her one, although the temptation almost overwhelms you. You hear Jack's words ringing in the back of your head, and you know this has gone far enough. You will not stand to destroy your morals let alone hers, even though every fiber of your body, your soul, your being is screaming for you to take her here and now, claim her as your own if only for a night.

"Vaughn, we can't do this. I don't want to come between you and Lauren."

And that's the last straw.

You cannot bring yourself to push past her flimsy defenses and love her like you know she wants you to.

Despite your knees straddling her hips; despite your erection pressing firmly against her heated centre; despite the mutual want residing in both heart and body…Despite the rest of the world screaming to lock yourselves in the bedroom and never look back, she resists the temptation and stays whole.

She is truly the strongest woman you have ever known.

And you would do well to match that strength.

You roll off and sit beside her, breathing heavily as you work to control your libido. Suddenly she turns to you, her burning eyes transfixed on yours. "Vaughn?" She whispers tentatively. You raise your eyebrows questioningly in response. "Can we just — Can you hold me?"

The strength of the temptation has dwindled to the ferocity of a kitten. Knowing that you will both be able to deal with this situation and this position like true, mature adults you consent and take her sleep-deprived body into your arms like you have done so many times before. She leans into you, and in return you feed her a steady diet of your strength, knowing full well that she needs it more than you do at this time. You rub circles on her bare arms, easing away the practically permanent tension. Soon enough, her muscles relax under your fingers, her breathing evens out, and you know she is asleep. Reveling in a peace that you have not felt in a long while, you pull her ever closer and gaze into the crackling fire.

**_   
  
'Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me  
So I can say this is the way that I used to be  
There's no substitute for time  
Or for the sadness  
Split screen sadness  
We share the sadness_****_   
  
TBC..._**


	3. Breaking the Triangle in Silence

Same ole, same ole...

This Chapter: Back to Lauren's POV

Suggested Soundtrack: "Mirror Mirror" by M2M, "Thrown Away" by Papa Roach, "Heart Shaped Box" by Evanescence, "Double Life" off the "Alias" Soundtrack, and "Time of Your Life" by Green Day.

Author's Note: Don't hate me because I make Lauren somewhat reasonable. I'm not contrivance-happy like _some_ creators we know.

  
  
Video Doomed the Government Agent

Chapter Three: Breaking the Triangle

  
  
The next morning, you wake up in the same clothes you were wearing yesterday. You must have cried yourself to sleep, because there is an awful crick in your neck. Rubbing the soreness a good portion of the time, you shower and dress only to find yourself in the same position you were in the night before: sitting on your bed with your head in your hands and without a husband in sight. Feeling yourself getting worked up again, you forcefully calm yourself and welcome your wits back.

You need to get a hold of him in any way possible. But how? You know without even looking that he has not taken his cell phone with him. And you don't even know where he went!

Wait a second.

Yes, you do.

The answer is so painfully obvious, it's almost laughable. You mentally slap yourself on the wrist for being such a dumb blonde.

He went to Weiss's place!

Dashing around the bed to your phone, you hit speed dial number two and tap your foot impatiently as they phone rings. "Hello?" A voice answers, hesitatingly cautious to the point of scared. This is not a good sign.

"Where's my husband?" You snap instantly, practically crawling through the phone and into his ear.

He sighs in exasperation but replies sarcastically, "Right there next to you. Ooh! I win! Look, I'd love to play Twenty Questions with you, but there's this little thing called work that I do—"

"It's a Saturday!"

"Since when does that have anything to do with it?"

"Look," You snarl into the receiver, "I know Michael's at your apartment. I'd like to talk to him." Even this small degree of politeness makes you sick to your stomach. He doesn't exactly like you, and you have even less affinity for him. But if you are going to weasel out an answer, you will need to be nice to him.

Eric sighs again, this time in defeat. "Lauren, I don't think you want to hear what I have to say—"

"Would you shut up and let me talk to my husband? I know he's right there next to you, so be a doll and hand him the phone—"

"He's not here."

You pause for a moment and double back in your memory to check if you heard him right. You did. Confused, you murmur more to yourself than him, "Where else could he be if he's not there?"

"You _definitely_ don't want to hear the answer to that question."

Something about his tone — its weight, its hollowness, the trembling note of sadness at the end of the last word — makes you listen harder. Maybe it's the fact that he is actually being sympathetic toward you when you two are alone for the first time in...ever. You grip the receiver tighter, nails digging into the crack in the plastic where the two pieces fit together. "You know, don't you, Eric." Stated rather than asked.

You can practically see him rubbing his neck nervously. "Lauren, please don't—"

"Where is my husband?" You repeat dangerously, voice barely above a whisper.

Embedded in a breath he answers, "Syd's."

No amount of coaching could have prepared you for that. Although, deep down, you suspect you _knew_ that was the case the entire time. It just...makes sense now that you think about it. Instead of feeling stupid about not guessing right off the bat, you become angry, incensed, livid. _How dare he?_ How dare he run off to _her apartment_ when you were having a fight about _her_ in the first place? How stupid can he be?

Does he have a death wish?

You can practically hear Eric reproaching himself for telling you his location. And you are only about to make it worse. "Give me her number."

He is so filled with regret that he does not hear you. "Huh?"

"Give me her phone number," You repeat strongly, straightening your stature to fuel your venom.

Shaking his head so vigorously the phone creaks he responds, "I can't do that, Lauren. I've already told you _way_ more than I probably should have, and I don't want to get either of them in trouble—"

"Well it's too late for that." You let your statement sink in before tagging on, "Give me her number, Eric, or I'll just get it some other way." How, you have no idea, but he doesn't know that.

"Then you'll just have to go and do that because I ain't giving you nothing, Lauren _Reed_."

"That's a double negative, Agent Weiss—"

Click.

He hangs up on you.

Slamming the cordless phone back into its cradle, you leap off the bed, jamming your hands down onto the mattress with enough malice to propel you two feet into the air. Now what are you going to do? Your husband is sleeping over at his not-really-ex-because-they-never-actually-broke-up ex-girlfriend's apartment after a harsh fight with his wife? What is the logical progression of events?

You cannot even think about it. Leaving the bedroom, you pad down the hall to the kitchen and recoil despite yourself. On the kitchen table are his set of apartment keys and...cell phone. A thought assaults you.

If being cynical got you into this, being cynical just might get you out.

Maybe he has called her apartment recently, and the number is stored in the index.

Racing to his phone, you turn it on, waiting impatiently while it flashes to life, and scroll through the recent calls, hoping against hope that names would be partnered with the numbers.

Nothing. You should have known better, as he is a spy and knows not to keep a list of received or sent calls. But wait a moment. You know he has friends and family in his phonebook under code names; yours is "BAC". At the time, he said it stood for Beautiful, Amazing, and Charismatic, but now you realize it merely stands for Ball and Chain. BS ("Balls of Steel" he said) was Weiss; FM ("Favourite Mother") was Amélie Vaughn. "Hell" was probably the Ops Centre; "Lucifer" was most likely the NSC office where you used to be stationed. The only other name on the list is both new and foreign to your eyes.

"Joey's Pizza"?

What the hell is Joey's Pizza?

Who the hell is Joey's Pizza?

Assuming it _must_ have something to do with Sydney Bristow, you press the button and call the number highlighted with the cursor.

It rings seven times before someone answers.

"_Chez Bristow_, now serving Michael Vaughn's famous crepes and something that looks like a large black cinder block...Mystery Meat! The chef says it's called Mystery Meat! Real original name, Syd."

Bingo.

It is him.

He is caught red-handed.

His red hand is caught in the cookie jar.

He is caught red-handed in the cookie jar with his pants down.

No. Stop. You do not want to think of it that way. It causes too many mental images, and you do not trust yourself to separate fact from fiction.

"So it's true," You state calmly, no hint of emotion despite the roaring war in your stomach.

The laughter dies in his throat. "Lauren," He barely whispers. All background noise disappears, and you assume he excused himself to an unoccupied room. You hear him breathing in slow, measured intervals, neither of you knowing quite what to say. "Lauren, I can—How did you—Are you—Why did you—What are you—"

"Michael..." You interrupt, his stuttering breaking your heart; the fact that he has to validate his presence is devastating. What have the two of you come to? Your hunt proved there truly is no trust in this relationship. At least, on your part; he probably trusts you completely. His mere act of not being able to successfully complete a sentence startles you. Your planned diatribe flies out of your head, and your throat constricts to the width of a plastic straw. Before you can censor yourself you squeak, "I don't want to talk about this over the phone. When you're ready to have a rational, face-to-face discussion, you can come home: I'll be waiting. But for now, you can stay there with _her_ and finish breakfast." You hang up quickly without giving him a chance to respond.

And you sit down at the kitchen table to wait.

It only takes a matter of seconds before you are up again, pacing throughout every room in the apartment. When you reach your bedroom, you end up facing the TV and the VCR. Behind the flimsy plastic flap, the video tape that started it all — both literally and figuratively, then and now — taunts you like a million bullying schoolchildren. Instead of their high-pitched screaming, the moans and lustful murmurings from that cassette dance cruelly in your ears, their tempo and volume squeezing your brain and driving you utterly mad. They continue to accelerate and crescendo to such a feverous pitch that it feels as if your skull is caving in and your stomach is volleying between your head and feet and your are doubled over and clutching your ears to shut them out...

That's it.

This must stop.

Without a second thought, you eject the tape and practically sprint into the kitchen. Clutching it with knuckles whiter than eggshells, you peer around the small space: knives, scissors, microwave, small grill on the balcony...

Jackpot.

It is more than just a passing whim that carries you out on the balcony early in the morning with a fresh bag of charcoal, a box of matches, and an aging videocassette tape. Within minutes, a roaring fire two feet high blazes before you, black smoke curling up towards the high white clouds in the sky. The tape is still gripped in your hand like a vice. Your brow and chest are sweating from your proximity to the fire. The moisture dribbles down your cheek and drops off your chin into the inferno, sizzling and evaporating before it even reaches the coals. Your clothes cling to your clammy skin as do sections of your tousled hair. Then the wind abruptly picks up, nudging the tall fire toward you. As you have no wish to die in a fiery ball of flames, you quickly complete your task and drop the tape into the flames.

That is all it takes for those incessant taunts to float away like ashes on the wind. Your stomach calms; your brain ceases to pound; your ears rest. As the fire pops and crackles and the plastic hisses and melts, you suddenly feel the compulsive need to say something, to chant in a foreign language like this crazy vengeance is a spell to dissolve the misery permeating your life. You think back to your boarding school days, trying desperately to latch onto any Latin word still floating around in your brain. All you can come up with are _ciniseris, patina, _and_ monticola_ (ruin, dish, and mountaineer respectively), but they will have to do. You also feel like you should be holding a book — an old book with cracked leather binding and gold-edged paper — but that is a little too much to ask your disintegrating perception of possible and impossible, slightly ridiculous and completely insane.

You begin chanting those three words over and over like a mantra, quiet at first, then louder and with more force 'til you are screaming at the top of your lungs and you feel your vocal chords straining under the pressure. The words are barely audible over the snapping of the fire and the regular downtown Los Angeles noises.

Since you can hardly hear yourself, it is no surprise that the person now in your apartment is going unnoticed. Your watering eyes close to block out the thick smoke, and your voice strains to reach a sopranino pitch at a fortissitissimo volume. All of your hate and anger and malice and rancor and confusion and numbness and shock and denial are pouring out through those three repeated words, giving you solace in a rhetoric that does not even make sense.

Then you hear it. Even over all that. That one, short, passing intake of breath from inside the apartment barely classifies as pianissimo, and as it came from inside, you probably would be unable to hear it in the dead of night. It is laden with such shock, horror, disbelief, and disgust that your fear Cynical Voice has recongealed in your consciousness. The words die immediately, and you turn around slowly, bracing yourself for another reincarnation of Sydney Bristow.

What you actually find is just as bad.

Michael Vaughn stands there in his Weekend Jeans and T-Shirt, utterly stunned. The ratty old backpack dangles from his fingertips and finally drops to the tile floor, the metallic ping the zipper makes as it strikes the tile sounding small and far away. Just like the fire: in fact, all noises seem to fade to the background as you stare blatantly at him, scrutinizing his paralyzed form. What has he done in the past twelve hours? _Who_ has he done? Is he as innocent as he looks in those tattered clothes? You'd like to think you can tell anything by one look at him, but everything you _knew_ exploded like gasoline when you found that tape.

Just as suddenly as he appeared he is gone, but you hear him banging about in the kitchen. He rushes towards you brandishing the small garbage can from the study and wearing the determined façade you know from missions.

You can only watch as he dumps its contents onto the blaze, surprised to note that it contains water not shredded documents.

You can only watch as he grunts in frustration, the flames still far from docile, and searches for the lid to the grill.

You can only watch as he slams it on and plugs the holes with the dishcloth you keep wrapped around its handle.

Only when you hear the crackling subside and the hissing crescendo can you move. You stare at him in angry astonishment. Who gave him the right to stop you from burning a tape he shouldn't have made in the first place? Who gave him the right to shatter your attempt at a perfect American home life?

He is breathing heavily, his face as singed from the smoke as yours must be. Resting a hand on his hip, he wipes the sweat-slickened hair back off his forehead, leaving white streaks that you would have thought comical if you were not so angry. He leaves his hand on his forehead as his pulse and breathing slow to normal, and then removes the lid from the grill. Black smoke and the scent of burned plastic issue forth like a flood, and you both stumble back in amazement. He unties the rag from the lid's handle and sweeps it back and forth to clear the air. You close your eyes; why, you are unsure. Yes, the stench and smoke are stinging and you want to get away from them; but more importantly, you realize you have no idea how he is going to react. You did not plan on letting him see this ritual display; in fact, you even thought about dumping the evidence and somehow convincing him that he took the tape with him when he left, possibly leaving it at _her_ place.

Now he has made that impossible.

Suddenly you feel the urge to punch him in the nose. Then he might get a _glimpse_ of what you are feeling right now.

But instead he glares at you from underneath his eyebrows. He must have found the remnants of the tape. After disappearing inside for a few moments, he reemerges with the barbeque tongs, and you have to fight you feet to keep from abruptly jumping off the balcony. At first, you think he means to kill you, to stab you through the heart with those long metal pokers. But you realize your stupidity as he leans over the grill and peers through the lingering smoke. Gingerly, he dips the tongs into the mess and extracts the horrible, twisted, dripping mass of plastic. He stares at it for what seems like an eternity, and an infinite amount of emotions zoom across his face like cars around the track at the Indianapolis 500: disbelief, anger, relief, anger, disappointment, anger, malice, anger, hatred, anger. The last emotion seems to be ever present — or not that far from his mind, at least. It continues to linger in his eyes: you think you see a muscle spasming near the juncture of his nose and cheek. What worries you most is the smoothness of his forehead; not a single wrinkle mars its surface. You have seen him angry before, mostly when he is watching ESPN replay highlights from a Kings' loss for the hundredth time, and always, _always_ he has those insipid wrinkles written across his face.

But not this time.

This is an anger you have never seen before.

And the sight of it is enough to almost carry you over the edge of the balcony despite your protestations.

He tosses the heap at the ground, probably a little more forcefully and nearer to your feet than is necessary. It clangs on the wood dully and hollowly; exactly the sound your heart is making as it clunks around somewhere in your stomach. He squares his shoulders and rests the tongs at his side, still menacingly clutched in his fist. As much as you want to track the movement of those tongs (in case they are launched at your throat), you cannot drag your gaze away from his eyes. That lingering anger has mushroomed to taint the rest of his face, and is boiling over into the rest of his body. You passively wonder whether your skin would bubble if you stepped any closer to him.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"

His voice is so low and uncharacteristically filled with hate that you do not realize at first that he has spoken. The only reason you notice at all is at that particular moment, you happen to be gazing at his lips, lips that never before have you heard utter a hateful word against anybody, let alone you. You can read lips relatively well, and with the way he is manically over pronouncing every word, you immediately get the message loud and clear:

You are in for the verbal thrashing of your life.

Stuttering back up to his eyes, your radiate pure, unadultered fear. Untrusting of your vocal chords, you let the fear speak for you.

Apparently he does not care that you are afraid, for his gaze and words are not diluted in the slightest. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" He repeats, louder this time. "Lighting a fire outside in the middle of winter and letting it get as big as it did? Just be glad I got home before the neighbours called the fire department. And what could have possibly possessed you to burn my tape? _MY TAPE!_ My possession, my personal property, my decision as to what should be done with it! How could you have bee so stupid as to _burn it_? What did you think would happen? That-that my past with Syd would just go away? That this argument would just go away? That I would forgive you? It's not that easy; it's not all going to disappear that fast!"

"So wait a second. Let me get this straight," You interject, gathering back some of your ground as you kick the hunk of plastic away toward the balcony's railing. "What the hell were _you_ planning on doing with it when you got home? Hiding it under the mattress for a rainy day?"

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!" He exclaims, not missing a beat. You can tell he is purposefully avoiding the subject, but he does not give you time to call him on it. "You don't trust me to do anything right, do you? I can't believe this. I _cannot_ believe this! I thought that leaving you alone for a while to calm down would bring you to your senses. Apparently I was wrong." He paused for a moment, the anger on his person seeping into the air and building a wall between you, brick by livid brick. "I was prepared to forgive you if you could prove you were sorry. Obviously you aren't capable of being that mature. It's _obvious_ that you don't deserve or even want my forgiveness. And right now I have no intention of giving it to you."

Your mood suddenly swings to the other end of the spectrum, and tears brim your eyelids, blurring his image. You stutter over your tongue; it seems to have swelled to occupy your entire mouth. "I-I have no idea what to do, Michael. I'm so lost, and there's nothing I can do—"

"Yeah, there is. You can trust me."

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can check them. "I don't think I can." They echo on both sides of the Wall of Anger, lingering in the air like the black smoke. Those five simple words sting your heart and poison your blood, leaving more than a bitter taste in their wake.

His anger is now completely transferred to the atmosphere around the two of you. Instead of responding, he merely frowns at you, shakes his head in disgust, and walks back into the apartment.

* * *

For the rest of that Saturday, you feel like you are walking on eggshells, glass, and boxes of lit C-4. When he is called into the office, you realize five minutes after he leaves that jealousy is not the only emotion you feel. Sure, his absence could mean he is going to see _her_, but the tension is finally decreased. You cannot decide which emotion disgusts you more. Deciding not to dwell on the possibilities for too long, you opt for grabbing the bottle of Windex and a few paper towels to finish what you started yesterday. Halfway through your second window you realize that even doing this could get you into trouble; you are positive the Fates will have a field day trying to think of something suspicious for you to stumble upon. You put away the Windex and throw away the towel.

So instead you sit at the kitchen table in silence, twirling a pen betwixt your fingers until you hear his keys in the lock. Then you stand and glance around the room hurriedly for something to do, to make yourself look busy. You eventually throw yourself at the refrigerator to start making dinner. The two of you have a ritual of making dinner together every Saturday night, and maybe your body throwing itself at the fridge is a subconscious attempt at getting back the normalcy that you've banished.

But as soon as he plods into the apartment, he drops his briefcase, coat, and keys at the door, brushes past you, grabs a beer, and collapses on the couch to watch highlights on ESPN.

You get his message loud and clear.

The TV continues to drone as you bustle about the kitchen preparing spaghetti: one of the only dishes you know how to make by yourself. Before the water boils, you lean against the counter with your arms folded across your chest. The silence in barely bearable. You know you are both listening to the other, packing the silence with apprehension. It's almost as if you are teetering on the edge of a cliff, the updraft from the canyon below the only thing keeping you planted on solid ground. Just as you feel yourself pitching forward, a new sound enters your repertoire: the boiling water. You jump into action, scuttling about the kitchen chopping vegetables, stirring the sauce, or sautéing the sausage.

Then the noisy silence settles in, the type that is uncomfortable, but to such a small extent that its presence is tolerable. The play-by-play becomes less mocking, and the chopping and sizzling are friendly to the ear. But then the preparations finish, and he knows by the absence of noise from the kitchen that dinner is ready. Despite his palpable animosity, your husband is not nearly rude enough to let you dine by yourself, so he flips off the TV rather reluctantly and seats himself across the table from you.

His wine remains untouched as he practically inhales his meal, the noodles leaving his plate at a rate you think must be some sort of special affect. All side dishes that you painstakingly prepared — garlic bread, salad, Italian sausage, he ignores them all. This creates a one-sided silence. While he sounds eerily reminiscent of a pig at a trough in his haste, your back is straighter than a pin, and your shoulders thrust back in the way your etiquette teacher taught. The fork poised daintily over your noodles chops them into smaller pieces to avoid slurping and sauce splashing, bringing them to your mouth as slowly as possible, creating a maximum contrast to his speed. His scraping reverberates between you, magnified like a hair under an electron microscope. But if he notices, he does not show it; he continues to gobble away under the silent scrutiny of your stare.

Only you can detect the silence, your silence.

What have the two of you come to?

You have barely touched your meal as he pulls away from the table, clearing his plate but leaving the wine for you to handle. He returns to the living room and flips on the television again, a movie this time. Ironically, it's "Ferris Beuller's Day Off". What you wouldn't give to throw a chair at the television, if not to break the damn thing, then to break this damn silence.

* * *

He sleeps on the couch that night.

* * *

The remainder of the weekend continues in much the same fashion. Occasionally you would attempt a conversation, inquiring about whatever he was watching on that insipid box in the living room, but his blank stare was the only response you ever got. Now that you think about it, at least he acknowledged your existence.

That Monday at work is the textbook definition of awkward. _She_ obviously knows that you know he stayed at _her_ apartment Friday night, because every other glance _she_ throws at you consists of triumph and pity masked expertly with muted concern.

At least, that is what you tell yourself to keep from drowning in helplessness.

During the lunch hour, _she_ even cross the bullpen to your temporary desk and tries lamely to strike up a conversation. When _she_ attempts to steer the line of inquiry towards Michael, What Happened, or possibly an apology, you defeat _her_ every time, changing the subject like a pro. You have no use for _her_ sympathy, _her_ advice, _her_ pity. After the third time, _she_ gives up the useless fight and excuses herself to _her_ desk, leaving you to your limp, leftover salad.

Michael would have been proud.

* * *

You are not quite sure what the Official Last Straw is, but it breaks the camel's back somewhere near the middle of the week.

It isn't his long hours spent at the office that does it.

It isn't the cold way he avoided your gaze, or the distrusting glare he pierced you with when he had to look at you.

It isn't his frosty words during briefings or the way he shot down everything you said when you hadn't even finished.

In fact, you welcome any brand of verbal communication from him. Because you cannot stand the silence.

And that is what eventually does you in.

The silence.

After that Monday, you just stop trying to communicate with him in any manner; anything you do seems to set him off. So instead you go about your business in silence, or with the radio on if the mood strikes you. The silence is so complete that any noise actually seems unnatural, seems to be invading and disturbing the delicate balance the two of you have established. So most of the time that radio stays off. But the television stays on; it has become part of the silence, not even registering when you walk into the room. It helps that he watches "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" incessantly, even when he does paperwork.

But that all changes on Wednesday night.

That night the equilibrium shifts without warning, and that updraft of air supporting you changes direction suddenly, causing you to plummet into the gorge below.

He comes home smelling of vodka and perfume.

Not really perfume, but it is something foreign and unlike him, so you assume it is _her_ perfume or the scent of a candle from _her_ apartment. It smells of ivory soap and raspberry lotion, neither of which particularly appeal to you or appear around the apartment. He offers no explanation; instead he struggles to kick off his shoes upon arrival, tipping into the wall whenever he attempts to stand on one foot. You watch the almost comical display he performs from the kitchen, one fist digging into your hip like a mother waiting for her child to finish his dinner. Finally his feet rid themselves of the bothersome leather, only to trip over them on their journey to the couch. He collapses like a marathon runner after a race, and just barely has time to flip on yet another rerun of "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" before falling into an alcohol-induced stupor, not really awake and not really asleep.

This is the silence you hate the most.

Your questions and accusations dangle in the air as big as billboards on the side of the highway, and probably just as obnoxious. His nonverbal challenge to voice them gnaws at you, but at the same time piercing your tongue. You will not give in to him; not again. You did once, and all it got you was a failing marriage. So you fervently bite your tongue but leave the unasked questions out there, hoping against hope that maybe — just _maybe_ — a snowball will melt in Hell and he will feel compelled to tell you where in the world he has been. But it doesn't happen that way. Instead, his challenge grows stronger and more volatile until you swear you can hear him actually screaming the words directly into your ears and—

You snap.

You cannot take it anymore.

Something needs to be done about this: something drastic. Something NOW.

So you retreat to the bedroom before you hear his snores begin to radiate from the couch. (He always snores when he practically drinks himself into a coma.) You sit on your bed with your head in your hands, trying to elude the damning silence. Thoughts, scenarios, possibilities, all run through your mind at a thousand miles a minute, not loitering long enough to be dwelled upon to their fullest extent. But the thought, the scenario, the possibility that has been lingering in the back of your mind for some time, now, finally gets the opportunity to shine. It somehow fights its way through the mish-moshing hubris and burrows into your frontal lobe, enveloping your entire consciousness. Eventually, all the others fade away, and all you are left with is this one.

It doesn't take you long to figure out that this is the only possible course of action to take in order to solve this problem, to clean up the mess you have made out of _all_ the lives involved.

You know what you must do.

And you do not hesitate to do it.

* * *

You take the next day off from work. Before he plods out the door, a little more deliberate than usual, he gives you a long once-over to make sure you are not seriously sick. Catching your eye he nods once, without malice for the first time in days, and leaves the apartment without slamming the door. After rushing to the bedroom, you root through the closet and the dresser drawers, throwing every single one of your belongings onto the bed.

It takes you barely an hour to pack up your entire life.

Barely an hour.

When you decided to move into his apartment instead of buying a new one, you did not realize how many of your own belongings you were giving up. Now as you stretch to fill your three suitcases and a duffle bag, it hits you full force just how much you invested into this relationship. You know he entered into this marriage with vigor matching yours; at least at first. Neither of you had banked on the admitted love of his life coming back from the grave. You never asked him to stop loving her completely, but you hoped he would cease to be _in love_ with her. Apparently it was too much to ask.

As you toss yet another meaningless knickknack into a suitcase, you decide you cannot blame anyone but yourself for this mess. He is right: you should not have jumped down his throat about the tape, should not have denied him time to explain, should not have tried to burn what was rightfully his. But once the crack formed and doubt started to trickle in, all the reasoning and logic in the world could not plug the hole. You know in your heart you cannot spend another week that way, let alone the rest of your life.

In the end, it is your own inability to forgive, forget, move one, and trust that is your undoing.

It's just like he said at the beginning of this whole debacle.

What it comes down to is faith.

Faith in him.

Faith in your relationship.

Faith in faith.

And you lost it.

But you do not regret a second of your time spent with him. You have learned what it means to love Michael Vaughn, to be loved by Michael Vaughn. And you also learned what it means to be Sydney Bristow, because giving this man up is easily the hardest thing you have or ever will do in your life. You cannot possibly imagine how she could do it, do not want to imagine.

It's all for the best, though.

You are not meant to be with him: it is definitely written somewhere in the stars that Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn will be together forever. And you would do well to step out of Fate's way.

And so you do, silently and without explanation, as you doubt either of them will need one.

You pause at the doorway to _his_ apartment, drinking in one last look at the home you made with Michael Vaughn. The papers are on the kitchen table all ready for _him_; all _he_ needs to do is slap _his_ John Hancock on a few lines and it will be official.

The silence in the apartment is surprisingly bearable. The silence lays about as languid and peaceful as a summer day in the country. For the first time since _she_ came back, you can breathe freely. You revel in the feeling and despair at its cause.

And you know, finally, that you are making the right decision.

With a sad smile, you turn your back on the empty apartment and close the door.

* * *

No matter how badly you want to run away from this city — just _go_ — something compels you to stick around to see his reaction. You have become a spectator, now, rooting him on like the rest of the world. If he does not do what you want him to do immediately after he finds the papers, so help you, God...

That is the reason you sit parked across the street from your old complex with a pair of powerful binoculars in hand.

Your heart begins to beat faster as you see his car crawl into the complex's parking garage, in no hurry to reach his goal. It takes a good twenty minutes for him to travel from vehicle to apartment. You stare through the lenses intently, breathlessly waiting for him to find the papers. When he does, you swear the people shuffling past your car can hear your pounding heart. He takes them out on the balcony to read them, granting you a better view. He finishes them quickly, and his head finds its way into his hands, your thumping heart shattering as it does. You knew he would feel some degree of pain at your initiative, but the grief nearly kills you all the same.

Slowly, he rises from his seat and disappears back inside and down the hall. He reemerges a minute later with his cell phone in his hand. You gasp and lean forward as he stares at it, willing your blatant message to be emphatically received. Without another moment's hesitation, he dials a number and puts the phone to his ear.

Mere minutes later, Sydney Bristow's car pulls into the parking garage. In half the time it took him, she reaches the apartment, and he brings her out on the balcony, gesturing to the papers laying innocently on the porch table. They sit down to read them again...together. She finishes quickly and looks at him, a mixture of uncertainty and hopefulness. He nods slowly, squeezing her hand. She offers back a watery smile as he extracts a pen from his breast pocket.

Together, both with a hand on the pen, they sign the papers.

You just barely notice the single tear on your cheek as you nod once towards them, bestowing your silent blessing, pull into traffic, and drive off.

****

TBC...


	4. Setting Sail

Same ole, same ole...

This Chapter: Syd's POV; we start back where Chapter Two left off: The Morning After.

Suggested Soundtrack: "You're Still You" by Josh Groban, "Your Song" by Elton John, "Run Away" by Live and Shelby Lynn, "I Will Remember You" and "Ice Cream" by Sarah McLachlan, and what the hell: "Video Doomed the Radio Star" by the Bugles

Author's Note: This is the last chapter! For some reason, this has been one of my favourites, probably because it's one of my most original plots. Anyways, here's the last chapter, and here's to the return of the crazy-named, serious-plotted...  
  
Video Doomed the Government Agent

Chapter Four: Setting Sail

  
  
You think this could be a mistake.

A horrible, awful, completely wrong mistake.

The two of you may not have committed _physical_ adultery, but waking up in his arms, remembering how it felt to do every day, reveling in the feelings his mere presence evokes...You might not have committed the physicality of it, but both of you certainly committed emotion adultery. If there is such a thing.

Somehow during those short few hours of sleep you have unconsciously repositioned yourself so that you lay atop him, his beating heart under your cheek. You both awake at the same time, and in the stillness of the morning, you swear you hear his eyes flutter open. He does nothing for fear of disturbing you, thinking you still sleep: the rise and fall of his chest becomes almost imperceptible, and his arms (which have somehow found their way around the small of your back) stiffen. You feel them quiver; he wants to pull you closer, smell your hair, plant a kiss on the top of your head. Instead, he gives you one last squeeze before he drops them to his sides, relinquishing the hold you still long for him to have.

Something intangible keeps your eyes sheathed as you struggle to conceal your real state of consciousness. Seconds of sleepy speculation reveal your reasons: you have no wish to wake up. If waking up means you have to extricate yourself from his arms, send him home to her, _feel awkward_, then no, you definitely don't want to wake up. If that is the case, you want to stay asleep for a hundred years — a modern-day Rip Van Winkle — just reveling in his touch and his embrace. So you put forth the effort to regain the elusive state of consciousness, suppressing your pulse and expanding your lungs to their maximum volume on each intake.

You succeed, but not in the way you expect. In your haste to drift off to Dream Land again, you do not feel him relax and his breathing deepen. What tips you off to his slackened state are the strong arms around your waist again, securing you to his body. Your reaction is the opposite of what it should be: instead of tensing first, you meld seamlessly into his embrace, forgetting for a moment what year it is.

Finally opening your eyes, they immediately latch onto his chin, its cleft in particular; the cleft you loved to feel, to lick, to kiss. Your fingers crawl up his chest, and your index finger slides smoothly down the indent followed seamlessly by your thumb. He seems to remember this caress because he smiles contentedly in his sleep, inclining his head into your hand. You trace the outline of his grin with the same thumb, teetering on the edge between the stubble of his cheek and his bare lips. His skin is still as soft as you remember it: never oily, never dry. You used to envy that trait, tried once to force out his secret, but all he did was blush bashfully and bury his head in the pillow. Your fingertips roam up to his nose, running fluidly over the prominent lump you know and love. When he told you the _real_ reason behind it — running into a wall instead of a fight during his first hockey game, as he told everyone else — you took complete ownership of it, and kissed it every night before bed. Traveling up his façade, you rest disappointedly upon his eyelids. For a fleeting moment, you think of waking him just so you can stare into those green orbs you enjoy more than life itself. Deciding it would take too much energy, you continue to his beloved forehead, which, even in sleep, is folded like an origami crane. You rake your fingertips over them like clothing across a washboard, one corner of your mouth lifting in a bittersweet grin. You lean forward slowly, lips puckered and willing to smooth away those 'imperfections' with a kiss.

This time, it's you who almost breaks.

Then you remember the date, the year, the situation, and you stiffen as rigid as a two-by-four. You must get out of this tempting position as soon as humanly possible. Any longer, and you might not be able to salvage yourself.

Easier said than done.

His grip on your waist is gentle but strong — much like the rest of him — and even though you judge him to be good and asleep, you recall similar times when you have tried to escape and failed miserably, only winding up spending a few more hours locked in his arms...That was the one art you never perfected. Hopefully this time is different. You begin by wriggling down his body, both relishing and despising the friction you create. His arms slide up your back, taking your shirt with them, and you stop abruptly. This is not working. Twisting your arms around to your back, you attempt to force his appendages up over your head, but he moans in his slumber and shifts slightly, his leg wrapping around one of your own. You roll your eyes and sigh softly. Nothing is ever easy with him, is it?

You cannot think of a way to safely extract your leg without delving into intimate territory, so you decide to leave that appendage for last. Closing your eyes and praying, you slowly but surely begin to twist out of his embrace, wriggling out from under his arms by pushing back on his chest. Suddenly — when you are halfway to scot-free — you feel the atmosphere thicken exponentially. Apprehensively, you peel your eyelids apart only to stare directly into those green orbs, now unsheathed — orbs that you would have given the world to see not five seconds ago, but now feel just as vehemently in the opposite direction.

Caught.

Damn.

Blushing under his intense gaze, you discreetly pull your left leg back onto the overcrowded couch and rest it next to — but not touching — his right leg. As slow as dripping honey, he rubs sleep from his eyes with one fist while his other hand mirrors its partner's actions on your left shoulder. Then he drops both arms and smiles bashfully back at you, lifting only one corner of his mouth like he used to when you woke up in each other's arms. Something in the back of your head wonders if she receives the same grin after a night spent with him.

"'Morning," He croaks, voice coarse and gravelly from neglect.

"'Morning," You whisper back, and octave lower than normal. Passively you reproach yourself, knowing it was a conscious effort to recreate the Old Times.

He suppresses a wider grin and blinks languidly. "How are we going to stay away today?"

Without thinking you reply, "Who cares?" The entire CIA, you answer yourself. You two must have stayed up well past three, and it's barely seven in the morning, and although it's Saturday, it's practically guaranteed that you will both get called in today and, God, you know how people's mouths run, especially when it comes to you and him. You will both come in, one right after the other, as tired as you were after a Friday night in the Old Times, and that's all it will take for at least one person to start up a rumour. That is the last thing you need right now but you could really care less because you are in his arms and what is that against your leg—

"Where were you going?" He asks evenly, shifting you slightly so you no longer feel him against your thigh.

The loss is surprisingly startling and disappointing.

But you hide it well as you stare back at him and answer honestly, "I can't be this close to you, Vaughn, without being _close_ to you. I don't know how."

"Maybe we should move."

But neither of you do.

His grin sags, and his bottom lip rolls under the upper, practically screaming for you to rescue it. And you make to: not of your own will, you do the opposite of what you should and slide _up_ his body and _'Oh God this is so wrong'_ and closer and closer and _'but it feels so right'_ until you are sharing breaths and not even a scrap of paper could slip between your two sets of lips and _'VaughnkissmedamnitIwouldn'tletyoulastnightbutGodIneedyounow'_—

"Syd." You feel rather than hear his words, the vibrations from his chest rattling your own. "We can't. You know I want to, but we can't."

That is all it takes to snap you back to reality, to break the tension, to cram your feelings for him back into their specialized cubby hole. You sit up and break your gaze, replacing his eyes with your hands nervously toying with one another. He must sense your discomfort (just as your sensed his last night), because he sits as well, gently removing his legs from under you. "Can I use your shower?"

"Vaughn, you don't have to ask," You respond immediately. "Towels and 'non-girly' soap are in the linen closet at the end of the hall. Bathroom's the first door on your left." The two of you share a smile, and he gently brushes a hand down your arm as he rises and stumbles down the hall.

You have no idea what to do with yourself. The two of you haven't taken many separate showers when circumstances provided another choice, so hearing the shower running and knowing he is in there, droplets of water beading and coasting down every inch of his body, is a foreign situation to you. Instead of remembering the way his tanned, toned, wet body glistens under the soft light of the bathroom, you busy yourself with menial tasks. After quickly splashing a handful of water on your face — _cold water_ — you quickly change, half hoping he'll walk in on you in your underwear. But, unfortunately, the steady pounding of water is continuous throughout your quick costume change, and you must think of other things: the last thing you want to do is sit there on the edge of your bed, waiting, looking like a psycho stalker. So you hurriedly make the bed he never slept in (jotting a mental note to never wash those sheets ever again; they smell as if he dumped an entire bottle of cologne on them) and continue on to the kitchen to scrounge up something for breakfast.

Standing with your hands on your hips at the threshold, you sigh heavily. Besides being anal-bordering-on-obsessive-compulsive about the cleanliness of your living space in the past, since you've moved into your new apartment, you could care less about being tidy and orderly. Pots and pans and cardboard boxes are scattered everywhere, but mostly concentrated in the far corner of the kitchen. You glare menacingly at the looming pile but leave it be. Instead, you turn your attention towards the large black..._thing_. You can't even remember what it was supposed to be; it's that burned. You have no idea what to do with it, but all the same, you pull out the oven mitts and poise yourself to dig in.

"Preparing for war?"

Startled, you glance up to see a fresh-faced and fully-dressed Vaughn towel-drying his short hair at the juncture of the hallway and the three-in-one room. He smiles and slings the towel over his shoulder, advancing towards you with his eyes on the ruined meal. "What the hell _is_ that?" He asks, voice dancing in amusement.

You smile back, the discomfort and tension from earlier floating away like dead leaves on an autumn breeze. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Well," He starts, the grin you love lilting his lips slightly, "you never could cook. I remember when you tried to bake that batch of brownies for Will's birthday—"

"Who knew you had to shell the pecans before you put them in?!"

"I did."

"Well no one told me!" You counter, oven mitts thrusting into your hips. Bustling around trying to find the hot chocolate mix, you mutter under your breath, "Stupid recipes. All using big words that tell you absolutely _nothing_ about how to cook a damn meal. Think they're so tough. I could kick their pansy asses any day."

"How 'bout I make breakfast this morning?" He offers, transferring the towel to a bar stool. Noticing your hesitation he adds, "I'll cook my world-famous crepes. And no strawberries; I promise." It's his smile that wins you over, and you nod finally, sticking out your tongue at him when you think he's not looking. "Oh, and the hot chocolate is in the box closest to the hallway."

This time you let him see your rude gesture.

You set about preparing two cups of hot chocolate as he searches for crepe ingredients. You two bustle around the kitchen with practiced perfection, dodging around one another like you are preforming a complicated tango. He makes quips about how some things never change, and you merely take his abuse because you are enjoying the dance too much to chance saying something too heavy or too loaded. The Big Black Block is still taunting you on the counter when the tea kettle whistles and the phone rings at the same time. Turning off the stove, you bump him with your hips towards the cordless phone next to the refrigerator. "Can you get that? It's probably Weiss: I bet he smelled those God-awful crepes three floors up."

"If _they_ are God-awful, then what are _yours_?" He chides, reaching for the phone. "_Chez Bristow_," He exclaims into the poor plastic, an impish grin plastered across his face, "now serving Michael Vaughn's famous crepes and something that looks like a large black cinderblock..." He trails off, looking to you for confirmation on a name.

Playing along you flatly supply, "Mystery Meat, Sir Smart Ass."

"Mystery Meat!" He repeats to the caller enthusiastically. "The chef says it's called Mystery Meat! Real original name, Syd." You laugh sarcastically and pretend to throw the Mystery Meat at him. Abruptly, his entire demeanor changes, the laughter dying in his throat. "Lauren?" He whispers disbelievingly. You sober up quickly as well, guilt weighing down your soul and banishing any trace of an appetite. He exits the room and stalks quickly towards the bedroom, locking the door behind him.

You feel like vomiting. Those few moments of bliss, of normality, of the Old Times were expelled, disturbed, _interrupted_. Why couldn't she let you have just a few moments alone with him where you don't have to worry about stepping on toes, possible hidden meanings, or the fate of the Free World as you know it? _Why?_ You were actually having _fun!_ When was the last time you did that without getting completely drunk? You can't remember. Why is she denying you your first bit of happiness in _years?!_

A part of you feels like slapping yourself in the face and yelling, "Get over it! He's not yours to be happy with anymore!"

Another part of you wants to beat the crap out of her.

You are completely and utterly torn.

Just when you are in the middle of a hoedown at your self-pity party, he wanders back in, the phone hanging loosely from his fingertips by the antenna. He does not look happy. Setting the phone down on the island next to the sink, he sighs heavily, attempting to release all his pent-up frustrations, worries, responsibilities, obligations, and stress in one breath. You do not believe it works. Just as you are about to ask what Lauren said, the phone rings again, causing both of you to jump at least a foot into the air. You two just stare at the small plastic object, not really knowing whether either of you should pick it up at all. Finally, the smell of burning crepe forces you into action. You lock eyes with him and nod towards the stove as you reach for the phone. You can tell he does not entirely approve of the idea, but he complies with your nonverbal command anyway.

A shaking finger presses the talk button and you practically whisper, "Hello?"

"Laurencalledmeandsheknowshe'snotheresheknowshe'satyourplace — ShewantedyournumberbutIwouldn'tgiveittoherbutshesaidshecouldstillgetit — Soyoubetterwatchoutshemightbecallingyourealsoon — Hey, is that crepe I smell?"

It's Weiss. You laugh shortly in relief, garnering Vaughn's quizzical gaze as he starts a new batch of crepes, tossing the ruined ones in the same pan as the Mystery Meat. You smile reassuringly as you lean against the sink and reply, "Hello to you, too, Eric. And you're too late — she already called here." You hear him curse loudly and smile at your friend's loyalty. "But thanks anyway. How could she have gotten this number if you didn't give it to her?" You see Vaughn cringe as he butters the pan.

Eric scoffs. "Why don't you ask Mister Balls of Steel over there? He was probably stupid enough to save your number in his cell under one of his pseudo-names like 10/1, Joey's Pizza, or Long Lost Love That I Never Really Got Over So My Current Marriage is a Sham."

"Eric Weiss!" You reprimand harshly, hoping to God Vaughn did not hear his friend's blunt comments. "If you value your drinking buddy at all, you'll shut up now."

He sighs in resignation but says anyway, "Lemme talk to Mike. We've gotta talk man to poor little boy."

You roll your eyes and hold out the phone to Vaughn. He stares at it skeptically and you reassure, "It's Eric. I think he wants to talk to you about children."

He sneers but grabs the phone all the same. "What?" He growls into the receiver. You watch him carefully as he listens to his best friend, mere unintelligible mumblings to your ears, and you suppress a giggle as he viciously attacks the talk button and slams the object back into the charger. In response to your questioning silence he says, "He wanted to know if I could come up and cook him breakfast in bed since I already had the apron on."

You both laugh incredulously, and the genial mood from before Lauren's call returns with a vengeance. After breakfast, the two of you circle the Big Black Block of Mystery Meat like vultures, throwing around possible modes of disposal. After finding none particularly appealing, you decide to play P-I-G and take turns lobbing it into the garbage can.

* * *

When he leaves to go back home, you feel the same pang you used to.

And by the look on his face, so does he.

* * *

Of course, the two of you get called in later that day, but instead of being horribly awkward — with bottomless silences that seem to go on for hours — you are more at ease with each other than you have been for a long time. Even Weiss notices and, feeding off the positive energy, refrains from jokes in the presence of superiors (and family members), but really goes to town when you are left alone with him. And you don't really mind it at all. This way it seems so normal, so comfortable, so much like the Old Times that you almost forget that you are _not_ two years younger and you are _not_ just hanging out with your boyfriend and his best friend.

But come Monday that all changes.

You are _all_ back at work, and _all_ includes Lauren. She obviously knows that you know she knows he stayed at your apartment Friday night, because every time you covertly glance her way to see if she's looking at you, she glares back with such malice as you have never seen. You truly feel for the woman: she did not ask to be dragged into the middle of an all-too-real soap opera. You do not hate her (although you do hold a strong dislike for her politics, her methods, her prejudices or lack thereof, and her all-around personality, but you don't have a problem with her taking up space — as long as it's far away from you or Vaughn); you hate the position she covets in Vaughn's totem pole hierarchy. So on the knowledge that you know she knows you know — yeah — you occasionally toss her muted looks of concern to ease your guilty conscience: she looks more haggard and tried than usual, probably attributable to you.

During lunch, that guilty conscience overwhelms you, and you feel the strange urge to apologize. For what, you ask yourself. For being there when a friend needed you? For coming back? _For breathing? _You try to talk yourself out it, but you still find your feet carrying you closer and closer to Lauren's desk until you're there and towering over her and the limp salad on the surface and she's looking up at you with annoyed expectance—

"Hey, Lauren. Mind if I join you?"

A fleeting look of loathing is quickly replaced with feigned regret. "Oh. Well, I was just finishing up here and then I've got to rush off to a meeting—"

"I'll be brief," You cut her off, not quite sure what you'll be brief _about_. "Uh," You stall, your mind casting for a round-about route to your apology, "I was wondering if you're free tomorrow night. Maybe we could grab dinner; you know, have a girl's night out..." You know Tuesdays are Vaughn's nights with his friends down at the hockey rink, so his name will come up.

She is visibly uncomfortable as she shifts in her chair. "Tuesday is Michael's hockey night..." She pretends to consider your proposition for a moment "...but I've already got plans. Sorry."

Becoming annoyed yourself you try again, "Well, can I join you, then? I mean, Weiss is going with Vaughn and my father is running out of nostalgic restaurants from my youth—"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Her gaze has turned frosty, transforming your annoyance into indignance. Looks like the fork from her lunch got shoved up her ass. Attempting to keep your temper in check you pry again, "How about Wednesday? Weiss can baby-sit Vaughn and we'll get manicures — my treat." You even throw in a smile for good measure. The lengths you'll go to be a good person make you sick.

Especially after she just stares at you in response.

Somehow you successfully resist the urge to break her neck, and you quietly excuse yourself, "You can think it over and call me later. See you," and retreat to your desk, fuming, only to find Weiss and his infernal yo-yo. "I thought you dropped that habit years ago," You snap as you reclaim your seat, sitting down so determinedly that you almost break the poor plastic.

He issues a low whistle as he perches on the corner of your desk. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," You answer through gritted teeth.

"Bull. Spill."

"What are you, female?"

"Yeah, don't my enormous breasts and long silky hair give me away?" Smiling reassuringly, he pockets the yo-yo and scoots closer. "Did your soap opera take off and leave you in the dust? Come on, tell Uncle Eric. Maybe he'll get you a bottle of tequila and a box of chocolate ice cream."

"Weiss," You groan, his charm grating on your last nerve, "I'm not in the mood right now. I just want to be alone for a while."

He gives you a skeptical once-over, and although you can tell it is against his better judgement, he lets the topic slip, giving you just one last piece of Weiss Advice. "Alright. Whatever the hell you're up to, good luck. And try not to ruin all _four_ of our lives in the process. Although if a safe happens to fall on Lauren, I'll provide an air-tight alibi."

* * *

You didn't think it was possible for things to get much worse, but somehow they do.

The tension isn't between you and Vaughn, though. The only time moods dampen and laughter dies before it begins is when she is around.

Every single meeting, every single briefing held, she is there.

But she doesn't glare at you like you just stole and ate her baby.

She doesn't take you aside and tell you 'how it's going to be.'

She doesn't really do anything but sit there and look like someone ran over her puppy.

Her gloomy, despotic mood slowly permeates the atmosphere like a poisonous fog, and you cannot stand it. The way Vaughn completely ignores his wife at all times (even going so far as to shut her down in front of Dixon and your father) is slightly perturbing. But you know now to _stay out of it: for once, it's not your battle to fight._

Of course, that does not stay true for long. After verifiably the Crappiest Wednesday in History (Except for Maybe the Day You Accidentally Flushed Your Fish Down the Toilet Thinking He'd Resurface in Another Toilet), you know you have reached the crescendo, the climax, one of the last steps before the end.

You go to work, and she's not there.

You attend a meeting, and she's not there.

You make yourself a cup of hot chocolate in the cafeteria, and she's not there.

You think if someone comes close enough, they could literally hear your heart singing.

That is, until you see him.

He makes a beeline towards you; it's a good thing his desk is on the way to yours, because you are not entirely sure he'd pause to drop his things otherwise. Without stopping or even slowing in the slightest, he grips your elbow and leads you to the one place you have avoided since you came back: the Flirting Corner. The door closes, and you stare at him expectantly as he catches his breath. You are not wearing a jogging suit, and his façade is a little more time-worn, but all the apprehension of that day years ago comes flooding back, and with it the heady feeling of too many unwanted happy memories coming back at once. But you suppress your compulsion to giggle as you really _look_ at his face. You know he would not subject you to the memories if he did not have a good reason. But his eyes suggest his reason is not only good: it's Earth-shattering-good; it's Old Times-good; it's Yoplait-good.

And he pulls no punches when he tells you.

"I'm filing for divorce."

At first, you do not think you have heard him right. You know he's not one for big, long, flowery speeches and proclamations, but he at least usually gives you a lead-in. This is like taking the final exam without attending class all semester: overwhelmed is an understatement. "E-excuse me?"

"I'm filing for a divorce. From Lauren. The papers are sitting on my desk as we speak."

"Vaughn, you can't," You contradict, an absurd smirk skewing the line of your lips.

He gives you a slightly confused look. "Why not?"

"You...just...can't," You fumble, not comprehending why the hell you are objecting at all. By now, your mouth just rattles things off while you are a spectator. "Vaughn, you can't break it off because of me; I won't let you."

"It's not because of you: it's because of me. We have irreconcilable differences."

"Namely me." You let that statement hang in the air until he becomes visibly uncomfortable, his hand itching to pull at his earlobe. "Even though you _say_ it's not because of me, that's what she'll think, and I can't stand the thought of having one more person in the world with motive to kill me or the people I love. You vowed yourself to her for eternity, and I know you don't break promises like that."

Locking eyes with you he whispers, "Is it right to stay in a loveless marriage?"

Matching his intensity you question, "Is it right to break it off for mere memories?"

Rolling his eyes at your stubbornness he cries, "Syd, I've never stopped loving you! Ever. Marrying Lauren didn't change a thing—"

"Don't _make_ me rip that apart."

"—My feelings are just as strong now as they were before! I loved Lauren: she helped me cope with your death — cope: not get over. But I don't think I was ever _in love_ with her; not like I was with you."

You throw up your arms in exasperation and exclaim, "Stop comparing us, Vaughn! It's not fair to either of us!"

"Sydney, I hate what I've become." The weight of his voice straightens your spine, pulling you to your full height and closer to his eye level. Your gaze conveys all: _what the hell is he talking about?_ He shifts uncomfortably under your eyes, almost self-consciously, almost as if he is afraid of how you'll think of him. But when he continues, his voice is strong. "This past week, I've frozen her out."

'I know.'

"I've been dishonest."

'I know.'

"I've tested her."

"Huh?" You don't know if this will open a spring-loaded can of worms or the door to your salvation, but you ask anyway. "What do you mean 'tested'?"

He takes a deep breath and shuffles his feet, clearly ashamed of whatever he is about to tell you. "Last night, I wanted to see if she could trust me like she used to. So I went into your desk and borrowed some of that lotion you have—"

"You mean the stuff I found and never threw away? In the top drawer?" You ask, too many emotions vying for a name that you eventually give up. You are confused, elated, angry, elated, sad, elated..."The stuff I hate?"

"Yes," He confirms reluctantly, slowly nodding his head. "That's why, if she assumed I'd been with you, I could disprove her, or...I don't know.

"But then I went to a bar with Weiss, and he spilled his drink on me so I had to wash up in that God-awful bathroom, and I just figured, 'Screw this: I'm going home.' That's when I decided to _really_ test her. I pretended to be drunk and collapsed on the couch to wait for her response.

"She just...stood there. Accusing me without words. I could tell she hated it, but...she couldn't help it; it's part of her nature now. She has this inherent distrust of me that will never go away. And I can't live with a person that doesn't trust me: it's not fair to me _or _her. I had to do something. Figured it might as well be this. Can't do much else."

His logic is all circles and spirals when you are looking for lines. You search his face for those lines and only find your beloved wrinkles. "But how do you know until you try?"

Shaking his head sadly, those wrinkles convey sadness that matches in intensity only with your own. "I don't _want_ to try, Syd," He whispers. If he circles one more time, he'll be a dog chasing his own tail. "I'm hurting her, and that's the last thing I want to do. I hate that I've done this to her. She's better off without all this crap."

Your hand flies up to cup his cheek, keeping at bay the tears teetering on his lower lids. "No woman's better off without you, Vaughn." His strong hand mirrors your actions, wiping away liquid you didn't even know was there. You _finally_ comprehend the sadness he has been coping with all this time; glad you can help bear his burden, if only for a few moments.

You are two separate bodies; one soul; one sadness.

When the equilibrium is true, you share everything. This has not been the case for so long, and both of you feel it, but you have also adapted, learned to live with the prospect of never quite feeling balanced ever again. But now that a weight has been lifted from one side of the decidedly off-kilter teeter-totter, everything is starting to even out.

It is a wonderful feeling.

He rubs the pad of his thumb over your damp cheek one last time before he drops his arm to your shoulder and hugs you tightly to his side. His words are so quiet, you almost lose them. "I'm scared, Syd."

Laying your head on his shoulder you reply, "'Courage is nothing but fear who's said its prayers.'"

* * *

Even after all of that, you still go home alone. You do not expect anything else; after all, she hasn't even signed the papers yet, and the divorce is far from final. There is still that sinking feeling that settles in the pit of your stomach every time you open the door to an empty apartment.

But the misery ebbs when you remember the events of that day.

Lauren wasn't there.

Vaughn is rectifying the situation.

The cafeteria served Chicago-style pizza.

So in celebration, you decide to ditch the ritual frozen dinner and do something crazy and spontaneous: you order Chinese. As soon as you hang up with the restaurant (the owners know you and like to chat in Mandarin), the phone rings again, scaring you so much that you jump off the floor. It must be Weiss — he has a sixth sense about these things: every time you order food from somewhere, he calls and asks if you happened to order enough for two people. After he did it twice, you learned your lesson: he would come over even if you said no and mooched off your dinner, leaving your stomach growling more often than not. So when you pick up the phone you groan, "Yes, I ordered for you, too. I even got the 'thing with the small shrimp and the things.' You're paying this time, though: there's a drought, and I think my money tree's dying."

But who answers you isn't exactly the person you expect.

"She's gone. She left me."

The hollow anguish in his tone makes you stand up straight, and all of your sense sharpen. Without another word you confirm, "I'll be there in five," and hang up.

You alternate between twenty over and twenty under the speed limit for your entire journey; you don't want to appear anxious, but your heart would like its other half, so you figure you better go faster before it bursts out and drives for you. When you pull into the complex's parking garage, you wonder what you will find his apartment: a broken man needing you as a crutch, or a happy one who is ready for anything.

What you find is a nice mixture of both.

He meets you at the door, his face such a patchwork of emotions that they blend seamlessly into one another. He invites you in, and you successfully resist the urge to soak up your environment as he leads you out onto the balcony, gesturing to the papers laying innocently on the porch table. You both drift down to sit in plastic chairs, and you begin to read over the numerous sheets wordlessly, your spy skills working overtime to compartmentalize your emotions _and_ keep you reading at a near-superhuman rate. You finish quickly and glance up at him, a mixture of uncertainty and hopefulness parading from eye to eye.

Finally, _finally_ he nods slowly, closing his hand over yours and squeezing it. You offer back a watery smile, the validation of his intentions uncorking your emotions like a bottle of champaign on New Year's Eve.

As if in slow motion, he extracts a pen from his breast pocket.

If possible, your smile widens to the size of a small canyon, your dimples matching craters.

Together, both with a hand on the pen, you sign the papers.

You do not think you have ever been happier than at this moment.

Or as sad.

You know what it feels like to lose Michael Vaughn, know how the pain creeps up and then consumes you so wholly that you don't know where it ends and you begin. You know that it feels like your skin is on fire, your insides solid ice, and the boundary between the two irritates constantly with an unscratchable itch.

Sensing your thoughts, he squeezes your hand to garner your gaze.

"She never had me. Not really." And she knew it, he adds silently with his eyes. That's why she left.

You shiver slightly despite your coat, and he seems to remember the chilly winter atmosphere because he leads you back inside, papers clutched tightly in his fist. Once inside, he lets them flutter to the kitchen table next to his briefcase as he helps you shed your jacket. As he goes to hang it up in the closet, you allow yourself a cursory glance of the apartment, but you don't even get through the kitchen before he reappears at your side, façade fighting between a cheek-splitting grin and sobbing hysterically.

He awkwardly shifts his weight, digging out the non-existent dirt under his fingernails. "Uh, would you like something to drink?"

"Water's fine," You hear yourself say. As he shuffles off you ask, "How do you know she left?"

Without turning around from the sink he questions, "What are you saying?"

"I mean, for good. How do you know she's not coming back?"

"I don't know," He answers calmly, handing you a tall glass of cool liquid. "But I _was_ her husband for over six months; I'd like to think I know a few things about her."

You nod understandingly and sit at the table, running a finger along the brim of the cup distractedly. Taking a quick sip, you catch him staring at you. After swallowing slowly, you smile shyly and continue tracing the rim. "So these were her papers?" You inquire, glancing at the revered documents. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him nod placidly. "Did you have any clue—"

"No," He interrupts, anticipating your question. "It's not like we've been talking lately or anything."

"Good point." Circle one; circle two; reverse; reverse. "Do you think she's going to draw out the proceedings?"

"Probably not," He answers after a few moments of consideration. "The Senator won't want his daughter's name spattered over the headlines. Plus, she probably already took all of her things; we kept most of my furniture, and we weren't married long enough to buy much together."

There is a long pause, and a clock from the family room ticks away in the background, the only evidence that time exists outside your own little sphere of reality. Gathering up your courage you ask, "Are you okay?"

Again he considers and nods slowly. "No. But I will be." Another pause. "We will be."

You smile gently and, leaving the glass on the table, you rise and cross towards him. You curl your arms around his neck as he snakes his own about your waist. You feed him strength and understanding, victuals mere vital to life at this moment than anything tangible. One of his hands rises and threads through your hair, causing you to sigh softly.

Shifting so that his mouth is next to your ear he whispers, "Hey...Would you like to go for coffee sometime?"

Smiling into his shoulder you reply, "Yeah. I'd really like that."

* * *

You plan to go slowly this time.

Baby steps, not leap-a-skyscraper-in-a-single-bound steps.

You don't want to mess things up this time around; don't want to make the same mistakes; don't want to go so fast you end up head over heels for the wrong reason. You keep a silent pact with one another to take things as they come and let the chips fall where they may.

It is a valiant ideal to uphold.

Too bad that goes out the window in about, oh, five seconds.

You go for that coffee, even though both of you hate the stuff: you're more of a hot chocolate gal, and he prefers cider or green tea. Sharing one muffin and nursing a cup of liquid each, you sit in that small café on the boardwalk for two hours just _talking_. It feels wonderful to be able to _talk_ to him again without fear of discovery or watching your words. You joke and laugh, and he fills you in on practically every Kings game you have missed since that night over two years ago; Lauren apparently could have cared less about any sport, let alone his beloved hockey, and he'd had this energy and these stories pent up for a long time.

It's not that you run out of things to talk about; it's just that your minds drift from the mental to the physical. _Very quickly._ Two minutes after the two-hour mark, you find yourselves getting reacquainted on the kitchen floor, couch, bedroom floor, bed, and bathroom floor..._three times._

So much for taking it slow.

The two of you cannot help but take things at an accelerated rate; what with your crazy, unpredictable lives, neither of you can afford to pull a tortoise when you have the opportunity to be hares. Slow and steady never wins the race in the spy business; you have already learned that once. He is an expert at multitasking — as evidenced by your reacquaintance — and while he is plowing ahead on one issue, he is considering courses of action for the next. He has gotten better with time, and not only at acquaintance multitasking. Because the two of you move faster than ever this time.

Oh well.

The two weeks you spend dilly-dallying up until that pseudo coffee date seems like an eternity compared to what follows.

It takes one and a half weeks after that for you two to move in together.

And one week after that, you're engaged.

Fast forward three days, and you're already on your honeymoon.

Talk about major hare-ige.

Despite your original hesitation, you soon realize there is nothing to be uneasy about. You have known each other for six years: two spent in uncertainty, struggling with an unlabeled attraction to one another; the next two brought a label, depth, and a connection that could never be severed; the most recent two spent in unspeakable anguish over the loss of the other.

Bottom line: _it's about damn time._

In fact, the world _owes_ it to you to step out of your way — if only for a little while — and let you pursue happiness the best way you know how: with each other.

Which brings you to this Barnes and Noble one year into your marriage, one year after you found out the truth about your missing time, and a little over one year since the last occasion either of you saw Lauren. The two of you are browsing the stacks with your fingers laced together while your left hand lies protectively upon your stomach.

He stops abruptly and snatches a book from the shelf. "Here's a nice big one. How 'bout—" He flips through quickly "—Deshante. I'm going to call you that from now on: Momma Deshante Vaughn."

"Oh no you're not!" You counter, grabbing the book away from him and leafing through it yourself. "If you get to call me that, then I get to call you...Harold."

"How'd you know my middle name!"

"Michael Vaughn, your middle name starts with a C."

"Just kidding! I meant Ca-harold. Yep, that's my full name: Michael Ca-harold Vaughn."

"You're full of it." You make to tuck the book under your arm, but he snatches it away and carries it himself. The two of you begin to browse again, still linked through your hands.

"This kid's going to have one messed up name," He remarks off-handedly, reading the cover of a blue book before moving on to a pink one. "I pity him already."

"Or her," You add automatically, garnering a cheeky smile from your husband. "At least it won't have some boring name like Christopher or David or Michael."

"Hey! I am offended by that, Deshante; take it back."

"Not on your life, _Harold_."

"Sydney? Michael?"

This intruder into your conversation makes you stop abruptly and turn in unison towards the head of the aisle.

It's Lauren.

In the flesh.

You fight the instinctive urge to bolt and settle for squeezing your husband's hand firmly.

She incredulously makes her way towards the two of you, her large purse clutched tightly to her side. "I can't believe it!" She exclaims, smiling genuinely. "How are you doing?"

Taking your cue from her, you nod politely and answer, "We're good—"

"And married, I see!" Her eyes dart to the matching silver rings on your fingers before alighting upon your face again. "Then it's not a big stretch to see why you're in this section—"

"Yeah," He cuts her off, proudly beaming down at you. "We've been trying for ages, but there've been...complications."

His inadvertent mention of your trouble conceiving because of the Covenant's violation of your body makes you wince sightly, and he lets go of your hand to wrap his arm around your waist. You smile at his gesture and turn back to Lauren. "So what brings you here?"

She shifts her weight slightly. "To town? A high-profile client who was too lazy to fly his private jet to Virginia. To this section? A friend back home is having a baby shower, and I need to mail her a present." There is a small, uncomfortable pause as the three of you just kind of stare at each other a moment. Suddenly she gasps and starts rooting around in her purse. "You know, I was going to mail this to you, but since you're here..." She alights on something, and extracts a brightly-wrapped box. "It's a little late, but congratulations."

You accept it, and he resists stealing it away from you. Peering at it curiously for a moment, you look up and say genuinely, "Thanks, Lauren. We really appreciate it."

She nods and smiles back. Melodramatically glancing at her watch she exclaims, "Oh my! I'm going to be late for my meeting! I've got to go. If you're ever in Virginia, look me up: maybe we can get together some time."

You mirror her nod and reply, "Sounds good." She bustles off in a hurry without a book.

The two of you look at each other, exchanging silent words and questions. Simultaneously, you both turn towards the door, and he tosses the book haphazardly on a shelf as you leave the store.

* * *

"What the hell is this?" You ponder aloud, sitting gingerly on the couch and fingering the box. Looking up at your husband in the kitchen you ask, "Do you think we need to examine it for anything?"

"No," He answers cautiously, bringing over two glasses filled with caffeine-free Diet Coke. Handing one to you, he settles next to you and takes the box. "_She_ left _me_, remember? I don't think we have anything to be afraid of. Plus, she never could lie very convincingly."

You nod, accepting his reasoning. "Alright then, you get to open it. If it explodes, I'd like to be the one saying 'I told you so' with her eyebrows."

He sticks out his tongue at you, and begins to carefully unwrap the present, both of you listening for anything unusual. The bright paper falls away to reveal a box, ordinary in every way. Lifting the lid, he unveils a videocassette tape and a note. You take the latter while he takes the former and heads toward the cabinet with the VCR.

Your hands shake as you read the strong, wide lettering aloud. "'Dear Michael and Sydney, I hope this finds you well and _together_. I know I left rather abruptly a year ago, but you hurt me, Michael, and I needed to make a fast getaway before you could hurt me again. Don't take this personally, now; I've forgiven you, and I hope you've forgiven yourself. And Sydney, I don't blame you for any of this. It's no one's fault, really; the entire situation just kind of sucks. I'm not sorry I married Michael, and I'm not sorry I left him when I did; I'm just sorry that so many people had to get hurt in the process. That video doomed me to a life without Michael, but it also pushed you two together, which was probably what the universe had in mind to begin with.

"'Anyways, here's a late wedding present. It has certain sentimental value to me, as I used to watch it whenever I missed Michael. I _know_ you'll enjoy this.'" You stop and stare at him a moment, slightly perturbed. You would rather this be a bomb.

He shrugs helplessly as he grabs the remote off the top of the TV and sits beside you, gripping your hand tightly. It is impossible to tell who is squeezing harder as he hesitantly presses the play button.

A bedroom pops onto the screen. At first there is no activity, but in no time at all two people — a man and a woman — stumble into the picture, hands roaming all over the other's body. They waste no time in getting down to business, colliding with the bed and tumbling down upon it. He's on top of her, and they fumble with buttons, the strange contraptions foreign to their lust-crazed minds. His is the first shirt to be shed; the buttons ping as they scatter to the floor, and his garment soon follows. Clutching her to him, he helps rid her of a floral over shirt and then lays her back down onto the pillows and dips his head down to a stomach he is slowly revealing to himself; his fingers are inching her tank top up towards her breasts. Without warning they rise again, in the process shedding her shirt.

The material slides over her head to reveal...you. Your image smiles indulgently as you gaze at him with reckless abandon and say so quietly the tape barely picks it up, _"You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment."_

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the man palms your cheek and replies in a whisper, _"Yes I do. It's been almost two years, but it seems like a decade."_

It is the voice of none other than the man sitting next to you: your husband, Michael Vaughn.

As he was nearly three years ago.

As _you_ were nearly three years ago.

Your eyes lock in mutual unabashed shock.

****

END


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